Carry On
by Port-of-Seas
Summary: Season 5 fic. Spoilers for 4.22. The end of the world has come, but it's all they can do to keep it together. will contain much whumpage of Sam, Dean, Castiel, and Jimmy. Rated for graphic description
1. Oh my God, or something

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. I own this fanfic, though, and I know none of this will ever ever ever happen in the show, because the writers NEVER read fanfiction or anything...

A/N: Wow. This is the first legit, multi-chapter monster I've attempted since Stargate Atlantis (and if anyone knows how that went, I'm going to try not to repeat old mistakes). I'm going to try to remain as canon as I possibly can and finish it before season 5 pretty much debunks everything I've written. Sorry if the start with Jimmy is a bit slow, but Jimmy'll be getting a lot of love in this story. And, eventually, the humor will come in. Just doesn't seem appropriate at the moment.

**Special Thanks** to Merisha, for beta-ing for me (and writing some spectacular whump.) and Kenkaoru307 for totally surprising me with her preliminary read-throughs. And to those friends and manager I sent it to who were gonna get around to reading it before I put it up.

Chapter 1:

"Oh my God."

The frantic, breathless exclamation was the first thing to pierce the deep haze that clouded Jimmy Novack's mind. It was followed by two more such exclamations, the voice growing increasingly high-pitched with each repetition. Jimmy wanted to ask what was wrong, he even turned his head and opened his mouth, but all that came out was a throaty groan.

"Oh. H-hey, are you okay?"

A hand came down on his shoulder, giving him a little shake. The gentle movement jarred the prone man, sending pain flaring all over. It felt as though every bone had come loose and rattled everything else in his body. Jimmy stiffened and hissed, his eyes cracking open. A face floated above him, wide, bloodshot eyes looking him over, parted lips pulled into a grimace.

Dimly, he recalled that there was someone very important to him, someone who might look at him with such worry and concern... No, this wasn't that person. The man's face wasn't even close to hers.

Her? Whoever she was, it was almost at the front of his mind. God, he loved her. Loved _them._ Who were they?

"Listen I, um... here, let's get you up."

The owner of the voice hooked one arm under Jimmy's shoulder and heaved him upward. Bones creaked as his muscles strained and hot fires blossomed all over his body. It was all he could do not to cry out as the man hoisted him to his feet and eased him into a cushioned chair.

"Nng," he grunted, shifting in his seat.

"Geez, I-I'm sorry. Uh, how 'bout some water. You want some water?"

Numbly, Jimmy nodded. As the man left his field of vision, he was able to examine the room he was in. Well, he assumed it was a room, somewhere underneath the train wreck. Cabinets, dishes, bits of plaster... it seemed that anything that hadn't been secured firmly had been shaken loose from its place. Jimmy sat in the only upright chair, seated at a table that had definitely seen better days. It was like an earthquake had hit. Unfortunately, he knew better.

The man returned, a chipped coffee mug in one hand. Water splashed over the rim as the man set it down on the table. His hands were trembling. He was frightened. Blearily, Jimmy glanced down at his own hands and saw that they, too, were trembling. But he wasn't scared. Not at the moment, anyway.

"So, uh... Jimmy, right?" the man said, interrupting the train of thought. "You're Jimmy Novack?"

"Yes." Jimmy frowned, glancing around the kitchen, almost expecting to see someone else with them. But no. They were alone.

_He_ was alone. Jimmy took a deep breath, glancing down at his hands again. His hands, no one else's. He flexes his right one, then his left. Entirely himself. All alone once again. Castiel was gone.

A giddy, lightheaded feeling swept over him and Jimmy's eyes widened as he glanced around the damaged kitchen again, drinking it in as though it was the Louvre. He was seeing this with his own eyes, in real time, no longer catching snatches through the bright, insane intensity of an angel's mind. He could count the seconds on the clock, hear the drip of the leaky faucet, all the while knowing that he would still be lucid enough in the next minute or so to catch the next second, the next telltale _plip!_

"Heh." The nervous laugh escaped, unbidden but not entirely unwelcome. "I'm me again. Castiel, he's... he's gone."

Once the words left his mouth, Jimmy immediately sobered. The last time Cas had left, it hadn't been good. Judging from the look on the man's face, he knew it, too.

"Well... any clue where he went?"

Jimmy frowned, awkwardly dredging up the disjointed memories. He remembered the sensations. Being thrown against the wall, struggling vainly as other forces -stronger, more numerous, distinctly inhuman forces- fought with him, trying to find out... something. The flash of light, like the last time Castiel had been taken from his body, but this one was different. It was more violent and vicious. The angels hadn't simply wanted to return Cas to heaven. They'd wanted him to hurt as they pulled him from Jimmy's body. Jimmy grimaced and shook his head.

"No. I mean, there was this bright light and, I dunno. I guess it was pain, but I wasn't the one feeling it."

"Castiel was," the man filled in.

It made sense. All at once, Jimmy became sharply aware that this man knew an awful lot more than the average guy would have. Which either meant he was a very good guy, or a very bad guy. Jimmy deeply and sincerely hoped it was the former. He'd had enough of angels and demons and all things supernatural to last him an eternity, but he'd pick the angels over the other things any day of the week. Even if they were heartless bastards.

"I'm sorry, um..." Jimmy squinted, carefully forming his words in his head. "As ridiculous as this sounds... I don't-I don't even know your name. I mean, you seem to be a bit more in the loop than I am right now, so... mind filling me in?"

The man blinked at him before understanding lit up in his eyes.

"Oh, right," he breathed. "Yeah, sorry. I'm Chuck, prophet of the Lord and... stuff. And frankly, I don't know how much I can fill you in. Every time Cas get himself dragged back to heaven, my prophetizing tends to space out for a few days."

Jimmy's brows raised and he looked the man over. Haggard, tired, dressed to remain indoors all day, a scruffy beard and anxious, tapping fingers. Well, the Lord worked in mysterious ways, or he would if Jimmy was sure the Lord was responsible for any of this anymore.

"You're a prophet," he stated.

Chuck nodded.

"And you-you don't know what's... _happening_?"

"I was just making a phone call after I finished writing about the freakin' apocalypse happening," Chuck nodded to the other half of the table, where a lone laptop sat; perhaps the only thing in the kitchen that remained untouched. "Suddenly Castiel and Dean show up, demanding to know where Sam went. I told them, and Castiel sent Dean there and he stayed to fight off the archangel, who seemed pretty pissed that Cas was here at all and... and then this!" he gestured at the kitchen, as though it needed any attention drawn to its state.

Jimmy shook his head and shut his eyes. He was still somewhat hazy, but something didn't add up.

"Why would an archangel be after Cas?" he asked, rubbing his temple.

"Because he was trying to stop the apocalypse," Chuck hissed anxiously, eyes darting to the broken window and back. "Geez... you really don't know much, do you?"

"No, I don't!" Jimmy snapped. "So please clarify. Of course Cas was trying to stop the apocalypse. That was the whole point!"

Chuck's face, already worn, grew suddenly more grim. Swallowing, he gave his head a little shake, averting his eyes.

"Not exactly," the prophet muttered. "The higher ups, well, they never wanted to stop it. In fact, some of the things they pushed the WInchesters into doing... They were trying to speed it along. Castiel came in on it late, and next thing you know he gets dragged to heaven the first time. And that was just for trying to warn them. Heaven only knows how deep he's in it now that he's actively tried to disobey orders."

Jimmy took a deep breath and licked his chapped lips, trying to sort all that out in his head. It had been one thing to find out that angels were neither sweet nor cuddly. Loyal, yes. Brave, well, they would be if they were accustomed to fear. But this... this was beyond disheartening. It was almost beyond his ability to believe that those magnificent bastards would be so selfish. A part of him was almost proud to have been a vessel for the one angel with a goddamed heart. Possibly literally goddamed, now that he'd disobeyed.

He glanced up, unable to process much more at the moment. He could sort out the implications later.

"Sam and Dean," Jimmy pressed. "They managed to stop it, right?"

Chuck shrugged helplessly.

"I really don't know. I mean, for all intents and purposes, they weren't supposed to. I had no idea Dean and Cas would show up like that. If everything went according to their plan, Sam would sorta accidentally break the last seal, and all hell would literally break loose."

For the first time, Jimmy almost missed being the vessel. Chained to a comet, so overwhelmed by Castiel's spirit that he didn't have time to sort out anything going on in the real world. Almost missed it. But only almost.

"And here I was hoping that the next time I came to, all this crap would be over. Hell, maybe we'd even have rocket cars by then."

"Hate to burst your bubble," Chuck chuckled nervously. "But it's only been, like, a week."

A week? Jimmy sighed. God, it had felt like so much longer. Time passed differently when you lost your ability to perceive it.

"Here, drink that," Chuck urged, nodding toward the mug. "You look like you're about to pass out."

Jimmy glanced back down at the chipped mug and, suddenly, his tongue was sandpaper against the roof of his mouth. Wearily, he took a deep drink, quietly reveling in the cool liquid soaking his tongue, running down his throat, soothing his parched mouth. He should have laid down some ground rules before he took Castiel back last time. Told him to eat every once in a while, drink a bottle of water a day. Just because the body would be fine didn't mean it was comfortable.

Before Jimmy knew it, the mug was empty, and he wanted more. Worse than that, his stomach growled loudly. Lord above have mercy, he was starving.

"I think I have some leftover Chinese in the fridge," Chuck offered. Jimmy nodded a silent thanks before lurching to his feet, determined to fill the mug again. After several mugfulls, he turned back to the table, feeling sluggish and tired but undeniably famished at the sight of cold, slightly stale sweet-and-sour chicken. Ambrosia.

o-o-o

Dean had always known to do one thing in life, and that was to look after his brother. So when he'd seen that vortex open, that light pour out, it was his natural reaction to grab Sammy and hit the road before Lucifer saw fit to kick off the apocalypse with a little Barbequed Winchester. What he hadn't expected was Sam's hand gripping him in turn, his wide eyes staring at the light that poured forth from the void in... what? Awe? Fear? Shock?

"He's coming," Sam whispered hoarsely.

Yeah, no dip, Sherlock. But for all Dean's desire to get the hell out of there, he couldn't help stilling at the sight. He had never really bothered brushing up on his Bible beyond what was and wasn't a Seal, but he did remember one thing from all those hours spent researching. 'Lucifer' meant 'Light' or something along those lines, and boy was it ever true. The abandoned convent, once dark and dismal, brightened visibly with the presence of the fallen angel, and for a moment he couldn't remember why he'd wanted so badly to stop the light from coming into the world. It was warm, and bright, and so undeniably beautiful. It didn't even hurt to look straight into it.

Something clicked in the back of his brain. It didn't hurt now, but Lucifer had once been an angel. And angels had a nasty tendency to burn a person's eyes out if they so much as took a peek. Tearing his mind away from the all-encompassing light, he searched desperately for the door. It was so hard to see anything with all the damned -and he literally meant DAMNED- light, but they had to go now!

"Sam, let's go!" he cried, yanking at his brother's jacket. Sam stumbled, but allowed himself to be dragged across the room, his large fists clenching his older brother tightly. And that was what it always came down to, wasn't it? It had gotten confusing with the angels and the demon blood and the seals and the apocalypse, but that natural instinct kicked in and he looked after Sam, dammit, and Sam followed his big brother.

Hands outstretched, Dean crashed into the wall, scrambling to find the exit. His head was beginning to throb. Anxiously, he shut his eyes, feeling and feeling until, suddenly, his hand met the open air of the exit.

"Come on!" he yelled, and took off down the hall. Sam faltered, but caught up. They hadn't released their grips on one another, though they now had something else to cling to. Run! It was the Winchester way, what they did. They hunted evil sons of bitches, and when that didn't work, they ran for their godforsaken lives.

At the end of the hall, Sam snapped out of his stupor and led the way to the entrance of the convent, dragging Dean behind him. When, at last they reached the dim light of night, Dean blinked and slowed to a jog. The world looked so normal out here. The stars were out. The moon was rising. The breeze was blowing, the grass whistling. Didn't the world get the memo? The apocalypse was happening!

His eyes adjusted after a few seconds and he caught sight of the orange car parked just outside the gates. Without a word, he ran toward the door, hand held up to catch the keys that Sam threw to him, already in the seat and flipping the ignition before he knew what had happened.

Tires squealed, gravel crunched, a dust cloud billowing behind them as they got the hell out of there. Out of Ilchester. Out of Maryland.

_Can't this car drive any faster?_ He thought desperately, eyes flicking constantly to the rear view mirror. There seemed to be an occasional flicker of light through the boarded up windows, but no grand explosion, no mighty burst of ex-angelic power. Whatever the devil was, he was subtle about it.

An hour later, they were out of Ilchester, and Dean felt his shoulders stoop. He was alive. Sam was alive. That was a small victory in and of itself, and yet he couldn't bring himself to look at his silent brother. Not now. Not when he knew exactly what Sam would see in his eyes.

_You happy now you selfish son of a bitch? You did things your way and you got your very own apocalypse! Great job, Sam, Mom and Dad would be so freaking proud!_

In an apple pie, white picket fence kind of world, he would be grateful. They would look beyond their differences and just be happy that they were alive. He really, really wished he could do that. But he could still feel those fingers around his neck, see the look on his kid brother's face when he walked out that door, trusting a demon over his own kin. It didn't matter how sincerely Sam apologized. Some things were going to take a long time to heal.

"Stop up here," Sam said hoarsely.

Dean glanced sharply at his brother, then at the hardware store he referred to.

"Sam, this isn't exactly the time to-"

"I need to do this, Dean." Sam turned, not looking at Dean. Damn. The kid's eyes were red, and more than a few tears had escaped since their flight had begun. He clearly wasn't in his right mind at the moment.

"Next store we see," Dean promised. "We need more distance between us and..."

_And the biggest mistake of our sorry lives._

Sam didn't nod or protest or, really, even react. He turned back to the window and slumped in his seat, staring numbly at the world that raced past them. Dean swallowed and gunned the accelerator, and whaddaya know, this piece-of-crap car had a little more juice in her yet.

o-o-o

Thanks for reading!

I won't preach about the fanfiction sins of not reviewing, since everyone does these days. I'll just put Sammy here, and see if you can resist his puppy-dog eyes begging you to review.

Sam: I... I am so tortured and must angst. Please review.


	2. I'm sorry

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. It owns me.

A/N: I apologize if these chapters seem to be going by pretty slowly, but it just seems like the way the story ought to go. More plotfulness and action to happen in the next chapter, I promise. Thank you so much to those who reviewed! It really brightened my day.

**Extra Special Thanks:** To Merisha for once again beta-ing for me (and making me laugh out loud with her comments) and KaoruKamiya307 for reading and offering surprising input.

Chapter 2:

An hour later, encouraged by the distinct lack of fire and brimstone falling from the sky, Dean pulled into the parking lot of a small mom-and-pop looking place, paint peeling around the door frame, weeds cropping up through the pavement, looking entirely small and lonely next to the bright, flashy mini-mart and liquor stores that flanked it. Sam slipped out of the car and headed into it, and Dean only just managed to catch up before the hardware store's door slammed in his face.

"Sorry, sirs," a youngish-looking girl piped up from behind the counter. "We're closing in five minutes."

"We'll make it quick," Dean promised, scanning the aisles for Sam. He needn't have bothered, though. Sam was already heading back, a shiny new shovel clutched tightly in one hand. Without looking at the cashier, he dug a twenty out of his pocket and dropped it on the counter.

"Keep the change," he muttered, heading back out to the car. Grimacing, Dean followed and slid into the driver's seat as Sam tossed the shovel in the back and returned to the passenger seat. The tear tracks had dried, but his eyes were still red, his face still pulled into that stony mask. This wasn't right. This wasn't his Sammy. Sammy would be raging and yelling and trying to resolve whatever this was. No, this was the new-and-improved Sam Winchester. Hard. Cold. No more angsting for him.

Dean took them back on the road, back into the tense silence that was beginning to suffocate them. For a moment he considered music, but the thoughts of heavy base and screaming guitars only made his head throb again.

"What's the shovel for?" he asked, eyes never leaving the road.

Sam didn't reply, didn't even react. Good. Dean probably didn't want to know. But after a moment, the younger Winchester's Adam's apple bobbed, and he opened his mouth, licking his lips as he searched for the right words.

"It's... It's for..." He pressed his lips into a thin line, brows furrowing. Something familiar came into his eyes, a deep, aching pain that could only be Sammy clawing to the surface. "There's a... dead girl. In the trunk. She was possessed by a demon."

Well, that just sounded like all kinds of fun, didn't it? Must have been some party Sam and Ruby had while they were away. Dean clenched his teeth, fighting back the urge to ask why the hell he'd kept the body. Just another thing he probably didn't want to know. Nodding tersely, he felt himself say:

"Okay. We'll take care of it."

As though it was the most normal thing in the world. For them, it was.

"That's it?" Sam breathed.

"For now," Dean replied curtly.

Somewhere around midnight, they pulled off onto the side of the road and wandered into a sparse field. It didn't look like anybody owned it, or if they did then hopefully they wouldn't come poking around for a while. Sam wandered out alone and began to dig and dig and dig, until he was plastered with sweat and dirt and fresh tracks of tears. Dean almost offered to help him, make him sit down, take a breather, but he knew better. This was Sam's mess, and he had to clean it up. Alone.

In the meantime, Dean could begin forming a plan. First things first, he called Bobby and filled him in. The wizened hunter called him every name under the sun, 'moron', 'idjit', 'sonuvabitch', cursed the angels down from heaven and the demons deeper into the pit, Sam was a moron and he was getting too old for this shit. But it all boiled down to one cold fact; Bobby didn't know what to do any more than they did.

With that said and done, Dean found a map in the glove compartment and began the arduous task of figuring out where the hell they were, and how long it would take to reach South Dakota. As luck would have it, they'd been going in the right direction, but it would still be one helluva drive to get to Bobby's. Dean sighed and rubbed his eyes. Coffee. He was going to need coffee.

The telltale crunch of boots against the grass jarred Dean from his planning. Sam approached and, woodenly, opened the trunk. The girl inside had probably been pretty in life. Dark hair, plump lips, a gentle sort of face that just made a man want to smile when he laid eyes on her. A real girl-next-door type, dressed in scrubs to boot. Must have been a nurse or a doctor or some kind of do-gooder, just trying to make the world a better place. She was pale though, her lips bloodless. Judging from the ragged cut across her jugular, he could guess why.

Sam stared down at her with a pained expression on his face, and for a minute Dean thought he was going to lose it. But the stoic mask returned and, gently, he pulled her out of the truck, cradling her close.

They lowered her into the ground, and Sam wrapped his jacket around her as some sort of makeshift funeral shroud. Looking down at her, Sam's lips twitched, and he faltered, almost slipping out of his careful composure.

"I'm sorry," he gasped raggedly. Then, he grabbed the shovel and began the slow, arduous task of burying his victim.

o-o-o

When Jimmy had eaten what felt like half his body weight in soon-to-be-discarded leftovers (with minimal gawking from Chuck, who seemed more intent on typing something meaningful and prophet-like into his laptop, with limited success), he leaned back and closed his eyes, feeling oddly comfortable. Sure he was stiff, covered in scrapes and bruises from Castiel's scrap with the archangel, reclining in a hard wooden, poorly cushioned chair, and likely to throw up soon from eating too much bad food, but he was full, warm, and relaxed for the first time in a long time.

When he felt human again, Jimmy borrowed Chuck's cell phone and dialed the first number that came to mind.

By the first ring, he began to doubt the wisdom of it. After all, the last time he'd seen them, everything had gone to hell. Amelia had been possessed by a demon, he'd been shot and unable to lift a finger to help anyone, and Claire had become Castiel's vessel; the last thing he would have ever wanted for her. And he'd never even had the chance to say goodbye before he was once again chained to that burning, bright comet.

Now that it was all said and done... it had been hard enough trying to win them back when he could pretend he was crazy. Now they knew exactly what he'd been doing, and that he had brought that evil into their lives. Amelia would be justified in never speaking to him again. All the explanations he'd offered, the smiles, the promises. That had all been a demon. The last time he'd really spoken to Amelia, she'd thought he really had gone insane. Not that he could blame her. He had locked them in the pantry and started spreading salt all over the floor. God only knew what she'd thought when she saw him standing up after that gunshot wound, the angel's words coming out of his mouth. For the briefest of instants, he had glimpsed her face through the white-hot haze of Castiel's spirit. There had been no recognition in her eyes.

Second ring. Maybe he should just hang up. Neither of them was going to answer anyway, Chuck's number would show up as Unknown on the caller id. That was assuming they hadn't moved. Or that they were still okay. God, what if one of the demons managed to escape? What if some of them knew that Claire was a potential vessel? Anything could have happened to them! Sure Cas had promised they would be safe, but there was only so much he could do, what with the apocalypse and everything.

Halfway through the third ring, someone picked up.

"Hello?"

Jimmy sagged in his seat, relief washing over him like a tidal wave.

"Ames," he breathed.

There was a pause on the other line, then a tentative whisper.

"Jimmy? Is that you?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's me," he croaked, a smile tugging at his lips even as his vision blurred. At that point Chuck had the grace to unplug his laptop and sneak out of the kitchen, giving Jimmy the privacy he needed with his wife. He'd have to thank that man later. For everything. "God, Amelia, it's so good to hear your voice."

"How are you... you again, I thought..."

She'd thought a lot of things, he was sure. Jimmy racked his brain for something, anything he could say to offer her a bit of comfort, but came up empty. What was he supposed to say?

"I thought you would be gone forever." Her voice hitched on the last word, and suddenly he wanted to hold her more than anything else in the world.

"So did I. I-I don't know exactly what happened, but I'm back again. And I swear, I'm not going to make the same mistake I made last time, I just wanted to know that you and Claire were all right."

"We're fine." She was trying so hard to sound calm, but he could hear the emotion in her voice. She was probably crying over there on her side of the line. "Claire misses you."

"How is she?" he asked thickly.

"She's holding her own. I mean, what happened in that warehouse, it definitely shook her up. But she's starting to come out of her shell again. She doesn't stop talking about you or Castiel. I think it's her way of coping, you know?"

Jimmy swallowed.

"Can I talk to her."

"Yeah, gimme a minute."

Footsteps clacked on the other end, followed by the creak of a door opening and a soft exchange of words, then a voice.

"Daddy!"

Jimmy closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath.

"Hey, baby," he said shakily. "How are you doing?"

"I'm fine. Where are you?"

"I'm..." he paused, suddenly realizing that he didn't actually know where he was. Clearly he was in the United States, and in a kitchen, but past that... "I'm with a friend," he finished lamely.

"Are you coming home?"

The euphoria that had come from hearing her voice vanished. Jimmy grimaced.

"No, Claire, I can't. If anything, it might be even less safe than it was before."

"But those guys, when they found out I could be a vessel, they taught us all the stuff. Like, the symbols mom painted under the rug and the salt. They even told us how to find these Latin chants to make holy water in case the demons come back."

"That's great, sweetheart," he said honestly, and at what point in his life did it become a good thing that his wife was painting devil's traps on their hardwood floors and his daughter was making holy water? "But most of them don't know about you. They know about me, and I don't know how long those defenses will hold up with me around."

"But what about Castiel?" she pressed in a small voice. "If things ever got really bad, he'd come back to help us, wouldn't he?"

"I don't know. I don't think so. I think he's in pretty big trouble right now, and this is just safer."

An uncomfortable silence settled. A few years ago, Claire might have cried and whined and demanded a better answer. But she was growing up, faster now than ever before. If only he could turn back time, go back to when she was just his baby girl.

"Do you miss him?"

Jimmy's brows rose.

"Castiel?"

"Yeah."

"No, not really," he admitted. "I mean, I want him to be okay. But he and I didn't exactly get to know each other. Why, do you?"

"No, not really," she replied, and he could hear the barest hint of a smile in her voice. "But I feel like we should, you know?"

"Yeah, I know what you mean." It wasn't a total lie. He sort of understood where she was coming from. Maybe when he'd had more than a day or two to think about it, he'd come to the same conclusion. "But sweetheart, I don't really want to talk about Castiel or demons or anything like that right now. Tell me how you've been. Not just this last week, I mean all year. How's school? You still into history? How did your soccer tryouts go?"

For the next hour, he and Claire pretended they were just a regular father and daughter, talking about everything they could think of. Chuck came in at some point, when they argued about which cartoon was better; Rocky and Bullwinkle or Tom and Jerry, but he gestured for Jimmy to continue as he heated up some water on the stove and returned to the other room, instant-coffee in hand. He wanted the conversation to last forever, knowing full and well that, with the way things had been going lately, it could be the last chance he'd have for a long time to speak with his daughter. But he still needed to talk to Amelia.

Reluctantly, Claire returned the phone to her mother. They shared pleasantries. Amelia was proud of how Claire was holding up. She'd gone and asked for that promotion like she'd intended for so long, so they were financially secure. Their neighbors were shaken, but all right. She was thinking about getting a dog to keep Claire company. He wished he had similar news to share with her. At last, they boiled down to the uncomfortable reality of his situation.

"What are you going to do now?" she asked.

"I dunno. I mean, I guess see if I can find the Winchesters again, help out if I can."

"Oh, that reminds me. They left me a number to call in case we needed their help. Here, do you have a pen and paper?"

"Gimme a sec." Jimmy stumbled around the train-wrecked kitchen for a few moments before finding a napkin and a marker. "Okay." He scribbled down the number and pocketed it, making a mental note to call that number next.

"You really can't come home?" she pressed.

"No, it isn't safe," Jimmy sighed. "Believe me. If I thought I could, I'd be on the first bus home in a heartbeat. But I don't want to bring that evil back into our house. Not if I can help it."

Amelia laughed suddenly, mirthlessly. Jimmy's heart twisted in his chest and he leaned heavily against the counter.

"Ames?"

"God, Jimmy," she groaned. "How did we end up like this? I mean, of all people, why us? Why you? You spend most of your time not being you, and I wake up every morning afraid the same thing's going to happen to Claire and... did she tell you? I spray painted symbols on the floor to catch demons if they break in. The hardwood floors, Jimmy! For God's sake, the reason we haven't gotten a dog by now is because I was afraid of messing them up."

"I know, Ames," he sighed heavily. "I know, I'm so sorry."

"I just want us to be a family again." The laughter had died from her voice, leaving only bare weariness. "It's not that I'm not still mad at you. I am. But I want you here so we can get over this and go back to the way things were."

"I don't think we can," he told her raggedly.

"Yeah. But I wish it anyway."

Jimmy shut his eyes and held the cell phone tightly against his ear, ignoring the heat that had come from its overuse. That was all he wished for, too, and damned if he wasn't going to try his hardest to make it come true.

"I love you, Amelia," he murmured.

"I love you, too." It wasn't just a response. Underneath the pain and the loneliness, he could hear that she still meant it.

"You should go," she said after a long moment. "Call those boys, figure out what you'll do next. And Jimmy?"

"Yeah?"

"Do something for me."

"Anything," he promised. You want the moon? I can do better. I'll get you the whole galaxy if you'll just smile again.

"I want you to call as often as you can. Even if you're down to your last quarter or all you get is an answering machine, you call. I don't want to spend another year wondering where you are."

"I promise."

They said their goodbyes. Amelia promised to give Claire an extra kiss goodnight from him, he promised to stay safe, and then they hung up. Jimmy stared down at the phone, feeling suddenly very small and alone. And wasn't he? He wasn't a hunter or a prophet or anything even remotely like that. He was a salesman, a family man, a regular guy who had been ripped from his safe place and dropped unceremoniously into a world where he didn't belong. If the universe was at all right, he'd be allowed to return to his nice, safe home and be done with all of this.

But the universe wasn't right, or just, or fair. The angels weren't necessarily good guys, and he had to do what it took to survive now.

Heaving a sigh, Jimmy pulled the napkin out of his pocket and dialed the number.

o-o-o

R&R

TBC...


	3. Too little, too late

Dislclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. It owns me.

A/N: Special thanks to Merisha for her awesome betaing, lilithakaducky, kaorukamiya307 (not kenkaoru307, as I have typed in previous A/Ns), deansbabygirl934, Mandy543, Nabichan Saotome, and Merisha for reviewing. Seriously, reviews are the fuel that keeps this narcissist writing!

And a thanks to everyone for reading this story. I know it doesn't get to the meat as quickly as some other stories do, but I'm trying to treat it like an independent novel or episode, in which the scene must be developed slowly. And for those Cas fans out there, don't worry. He WILL be making an appearance soon.

One more thing, I apologize for suddenly up and disappearing for a week. I probably should have mentioned before posting chapter 2 that I was going to be gone for a week on a sailing trip. But I am back and sunburned and ready to post!

Chapter 3:

Dean heaved a sigh of relief, glancing over to his baby brother's massive form dozing off in the passenger seat. It wasn't that he wasn't dog tired himself, but he just needed a chance to breathe. It was hard to do that when you couldn't decide whether you wanted to hit or hug the person sitting next to you.

Dean stifled a yawn, glaring at the road ahead. They'd been making good time, but it wasn't good enough. He needed to get to Bobby's, and he needed to get there now!

Maybe a little music would help. Double-checking to make certain that Sam was definitely out, Dean flipped the radio on low volume. The first song that greeted him was a whiny, moaning country ballad about some dude who loved some chick and was miserable about it. Ugh! And it was the only station that actually played any music whatsoever.

Dean flipped the radio off in disgust. He'd just have to suffer the silence. Focus on tearing up the road.

That plan lasted all of about ten seconds until his cell phone went off. Sam jolted out of his sleep as Dean fumbled for his jacket pocket.

"Dean?" he croaked. "What?"

"Just my cell phone, Sammy," Dean barked irritably. "Go back to sleep."

But, of course, the sasquatch refused to lay down. Dean rolled his eyes and answered the phone.

"Hello?"

"Dean Winchester?"

The voice was soft, strained with a haggardness he didn't remember, but the voice was familiar.

"Jimmy?"

Sam perked up, turning to listen intently.

"What happened?" Dean demanded. "Where are you? Where's Castiel?"

"I'm safe," Jimmy assured him. "I'm with a guy named Chuck. Castiel... I dunno, I think he got dragged back to heaven again."

_Oh, God no... Tell me I didn't do this. Tell me I didn't screw him over royally just so I could get to Sam too late to make a difference._

"Dean!" Sam yelled, and Dean jerked, just in time to avoid driving straight off the road. Tires skidded as the mustang righted itself. On the other end of the phone, Jimmy frantically demanded to know what was going on.

"Shit!" Dean hissed.

"Jesus, Dean!" Sam exclaimed. "Gimme the phone, you should be focusing on driving.

"The hell is going on?" Jimmy cried on the other end.

Dean glanced at Sam and, reluctantly, handed the phone over. His heart throbbed painfully as the adrenaline from that little mishap already began to dissipate.

"Mm-hm," Sam hummed, his eyes narrowing as he stared out the window. "Yeah, that's probably a good idea. It'd probably be faster if you met up with us. Do you have any money? ... Good. Okay, we're going to Bobby Singer's place in South Dakota."

All at once, the radio flipped on, switching from station to staticky station. Piece of crap car. Dean reached over to flip it off, but at the same moment, the overhead light began to flicker.

"Jimmy? Jimmy!"

Sam stared at the phone, punching the buttons, but nothing happened. Swallowing, both Winchesters glanced up at each other. Shit.

The first demon strode out of the woods, right in front of the car. Dean didn't even slow down. The demon's black eyes widened as the mustang hit her full on, her host's body cracking the windshield with a heavy _thump! _They were long gone before the bitch even had the chance to peel herself off the asphalt.

Tires screeched as Dean wheeled around a turn. A crowd of demons, all possessing what looked to be a bunch of Average Joes and Mary Janes, blocked the way.

_Just fine with me. Always wanted to go bowling for demons._

As Dean barreled forward, one of the demons pulled out a long, wicked-looking butcher's knife. That was just the problem with demons, though, wasn't it? They were only borrowing their bodies, so most had little to no reservations about suicidal actions. All they had to do was go off and find a new meat suit.

The demon ran ahead of the rest, throwing himself down on the ground, his knife glinting in the glare of the headlights. Dean guessed his intentions a second too late. There was a hiss of air, a pair of heavy thumps as the mustang took out the demon's body, and they were spinning out of control. Dean's stomach lurched as he gripped the wheel, frantically turning it, trying to get it under control.

_Wham!_

Glass exploded inward, seat belt biting into his shoulder as the car slammed into a heavy oak tree on the passenger side.

"Sam!" The word was hardly out of his mouth when Sam shifted, lifting his head from the the fetal position he had pulled himself into, glass trickling off his shoulders. He had a nasty cut above his eye, but the damage seemed minimal. Thank God.

Dean twisted in his seat, his hand going instantly for the demon-killing knife. The second his fingers wrapped around the hilt, he felt some of the old anger coming back, and suddenly he was ready to fight again, maybe take some evil sons of bitches back to hell with him. And hey, with Alastair gone and Lucifer out, maybe he wouldn't be strung up the way he had been before. Maybe once he was down there he could get to the other souls, the ones that weren't quite evil yet. Make some kind of a difference...

No, he was getting ahead of himself. First things first; kill some demons.

He pulled off his seat belt and lunged for the door, knife clenched in his white-knuckled fist when a figure appeared by Dean's window, his shoulders pulled back. One by one, the demons froze, each one resembling a deer caught in a pair of big-ass headlights.

"We advise you keep your brother in the car, Dean," the angel said coldly. Dean gulped and glanced back at Sam, who had gone whiter than the vast majority of ghosts they came across. Zachariah turned his head, watching the brothers out of the corner of his eye.

"I-I'm," Sam stammered, but Zachariah silenced him with that cheeky, 'Oh-look-at-the-cute-human' smile of his that just made Dean want to take the knife and...

"Oh, don't worry, Sam. You played your part admirably. It's your brother we've got a bit of a problem with right now."

Dean didn't miss the flick of Zachariah's eyes, or the brief smoldering of fury within them before he turned back to the demons. Several turned and fled into the woods on the other side of the road. Dean stiffened and jerked at the door, but he couldn't budge it. Scowling, he glanced down to see that the angel was holding it shut with inhuman ease.

"Let me out, Zac," Dean growled. "They're getting away."

"No."

"What do you want?" he demanded, trying again with the door. All he really succeeded in doing was straining his shoulder.

"Dean, even though you've gone and pissed us off, you're still our boy. Not a golden boy, mind you, but you have a job to do and I'd really prefer that you don't endanger yourself before then."

"Screw you and your job!" Dean yelled, throwing himself against the door. It cracked open for a fraction of a second, but Zachariah shut it again.

"Watch your temper," Zachariah warned, glaring down at him. "And remember your oath."

Before Dean could sputter in protest, Zachariah placed a hand on the roof of the car. He barely caught a glimpse of angels appearing on the road, surrounding the demons who had clumped together, before the world faded into hot, brilliant light. Pressure bore down on his skull, boiling his insides and splitting his ears open. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the light faded and the discomfort melted away. Dean blinked, jolting out of his seat when he saw the familiar dusty lot filled with cars in various stages of repair.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean yelled, all but tearing the door off and stomping out into the salvage yard. He was getting sick and tired of that angel jerking him around like some kind of freaking puppet!

"Dean?" Sam's voice was soft, downright uncertain. Any other time it might have grabbed Dean by the nose, forcing him to calm down. But right now, dammit, he wasn't in the mood to be calm or rational. Scowling, he turned, shoving his hands in his pockets to hide his clenching and unclenching flists.

Sam leaned lightly against the mustang, his eyes wide with a fear nobody had to name.

"What did he mean?" the younger Winchester asked. "My part? Your oath? What's going on?"

"Right, because you know all about telling the truth and letting everyone else know what the hell is going on!" Dean snapped.

He didn't think the kid's eyes could have grown any wider, but Sam sure managed to prove him wrong.

"Dean, I'm so sorry-"

"Yeah? You're sorry? For what, Sam? For lying to us or for starting the goddamned apocalypse?" Dean stalked toward his brother, barely conscious of the movement. Rage burned in his chest, his vision blurring with red around the edges, and any desire he might have had to play nice was gone. "Save your apologies for all the people who are gonna die because you were too good to listen to us!"

"I thought I was helping."

"Yeah?" Dean reached out and grabbed the front of Sam's shirt, shoving him roughly against the mustang. Sam let out a muted gasp, his face twisting miserably. Dean could only go on yelling. "How helpful is a demon likely to be in all of this? _That's_ the side you chose, Sam. _That's _the kind of help you were. And so help me, if you even think about trying to justify what you've done, I will bust you up so bad you'll be lucky to drink through a straw." His voice dropped to a low timbre, and he narrowed his eyes. "Is that absolutely clear or do you need a demonstration?"

The look on Sam's face was one of abject fear, but he stilled, returning to the same neutral expression he had worn just an hour or so ago. Sam jerked his head.

"I get it."

"Get your ass in that house right now, and you better pray Bobby's in a better mood than I am."

Giving his little brother one final shove, Dean released his death grip on Sam's shirt and turned away, clenching his jaw as he heard Sam's boots crunching against the gravel of the salvage yard, creaking up the steps, and slamming the door shut. The second he could count on being alone, Dean shut his eyes, shoulders slumping down as he let it all crash in on him. They'd failed. Worse than failed. They'd played right into everybody's hands; the demons, the angels... lost their own battles so a bunch of frickin' angels and demons could have their little holy wars, cause it wasn't like humans mattered or anything, was it?

Heat welled up between his eyelids, but he tilted his head, denying his own tears. He'd failed. He had no business grieving when the rest of the world was about to go through hell.

o-o-o

The last few days had been hell on Bobby Singer. Ranked right up there with killing his own beautiful, demon-possessed wife. Not quite as bad -nothing was quite as bad- but he was worn thin enough to wonder if it wasn't a very, very close second. Locking Sam in the panic room, being knocked unconscious, waiting on Dean to drag the boy's sorry ass back, listening to Dean whine and cower because he failed, seeing Dean disappear and waiting around again for something, anything, while the world slowly collapsed around him. Rufus had stopped calling to update him on possible seals being broken. Sumbitch probably knew it wasn't worth the effort anymore.

Bobby sighed and sank into his couch, pinching the bridge of his nose. He hadn't slept in... God only knew how long it had been, but he couldn't let his eyes close. Any moment, one of those boys could come walking through that door, weary and bloody and ready to pass out. 'Course, any moment some jittery hellspawn eager to take out a hunter could also burst in, ready to take him out. No, all in all, it was probably better that he stay awake.

A small part of him knew that he ought to be doing something to occupy his mind. Go over some books, maybe. Fix the busted devil's traps in the panic room. Work on a few cars, supposing there would be a world next week that might have the luxury to give him a little business. All those things sounded good and well in his head, but the thought of actually leaving the house, of doing anything that might distract him from the creak of his front door, sickened him.

At least he'd managed to eat something earlier. It meant he wasn't completely hopeless.

It was pretty late, though. He probably ought to try and get some rest. After all, what good would he be to anyone if he was dead on his feet?

Stretching out along the length of the couch, Bobby groaned, feeling his back pop uncomfortably. He needed to relax. If a demon somehow got in (he'd laid salt over the entrances and double-checked his barriers, right? Yes, of course he had...) then there were worse ways to go than in his sleep. And if one of the boys came in, he had no doubt that they'd see fit to wake him.

With that in mind, he closed his eyes and tried to focus on catching a little shut-eye. He counted sheep, counted backwards, counted forwards... hell, counting wasn't going to cut it.

Bobby groaned and shifted, trying a new tactic. He began reciting Latin in his head... which, as it turned out, would not help when he suddenly found himself wondering if he ought to whip up some more holy water, just in case. It couldn't hurt... but he already had four gallons sitting in the pantry, plus every bottle in the house either filled or at least spiked with a healthy portion of the stuff. He needed to sleep.

Somewhere between listing as many different car parts as he could and attempting to recall the details of a documentary he'd watched a couple of weeks ago, Bobby managed to slip into an uneasy sleep. His dreams came in uncomfortable snatches filled with hunting and demons and doomsday signs. He saw his wife reaching out to him from behind a curtain of fire, the faces of so many dead hunters floating behind her. He saw Sam and Dean being backed hopelessly into corners, blood dripping from their mouths as they fought beyond logical ability. He saw Ellen waiting for her daughter, silent and forlorn, when demons came for her. He saw so many terrible things that he wanted to gouge his own eyes out just so he wouldn't have to watch them die anymore.

It was almost a relief when a knock at the door woke Bobby from his slumber. By the time he rolled off the couch, the door was already slamming shut. Taking a deep breath, Bobby grabbed his shotgun and crept into the kitchen, ready to shoot anything that moved. Whoever it was must have known, though, because he stood still as a statue, hands raised in a halfhearted surrender.

Bobby had to blink to assure himself that, yes, this was who it appeared to be.

"Sam," he breathed, his grip on the shotgun loosening.

The boy was definitely worn. Not the shaky, desperate, strung-out boy who had stared at him with weary, red-rimmed eyes a few days ago, but he didn't look much better. This Sam was worn down, like a threadbare sweater that just kept getting used and used long past its time. The look in his eyes... well, Bobby could have gone his whole life without seeing that. Would have preferred to, at any rate. Sam was twenty-six years old, and he had given up.

"I'm sorry, Bobby," he breathed. "I'm so sorry."

"You here alone?" Bobby pressed, his eyes flicking to the window. Damn. He'd left the shutters down, and he wasn't about to lower the gun long enough to glance out there for himself.

"Dean," Sam replied, but whatever else he might have said died on his lips. Of course. If Sam was with Dean, then he was probably looking forward to the worst thrashing of his life, if he hadn't received it already.

At that moment, the door flew open and Dean stomped in, his anger only barely in check. Bobby had no choice but to lower his gun.

"Boy, where on earth have you been?" Bobby demanded.

Dean's head shot up to glare at him. As if that would actually intimidate a man like Bobby Singer.

"You were on earth, weren't you?" Bobby added.

Dean snorted, but shifted his murderous glare to the wall.

"I was in some kind of angelic safety deposit box," Dean snarled. "Then I was in a kitchen. Then I was in a convent stabbing that bitch Ruby. Then I was in a car driving here. Oh, and we stopped by a hardware store on the way, had lots of fun."

"I'll bet." Bobby leaned the gun against the wall, within easy reach, and strode into the kitchen, flicking the light on as he went. They looked even worse with a little illumination. Both of then were running on empty, both of them were ready to throw in the towel. Only difference was that Dean still had a little anger to cling to. Sam was just done. Bobby cleared his throat.

"You boys look like you could use a drink," he said, walking purposefully to the fridge and pulling out a few of his 'special' beers. Of course they knew what was coming, but it was protocol. They both accepted the bottles, but neither looked up to drinking much of anything. Sam even started to turn a little green. But they had to get through this if they were going to get anywhere tonight.

Bobby took a long draught from his bottle, silently encouraging them to do the same. Dean brought the bottle to his lips, first taking a small sip, then a larger gulp. Sam, still looking like he'd rather vomit than eat or drink anything at the moment, followed suit.

Dean finished his beer in record time and slammed the bottle down on the table, scowling the whole time.

Sam let loose a sudden, deep cough. Bobby and Dean stiffened. The boy was bent over, one hand clutching the bottle, the other rubbing his throat. Still, he wasn't screaming in agony, wasn't smoking.

"Must've just swallowed wrong," Dean remarked. Yeah. It was the excuse they were all thinking, but none of them was buying it.

Sam swallowed and, determinately, took another gulp of beer. This time, he set the bottle down on the table and gripped the back of a chair with one hand, the other desperately massaging his chest as his face twisted in pain. Still, no yells. No smoke. No demon.

"Bobby, I... I don't feel too great," Sam confessed. Even as the pain left his face, he didn't straighten. "Is the, uh... I mean, is it too late for me to..."

"Yeah I, uh, I checked the locks. It should be secure," Bobby assured him quietly. "Maybe it's best if you, ah, rest in there for a bit."

"Sounds like a good idea."

Sam straightened and, with the stiff walk of a man headed straight for the gallows, he made his way down to the panic room. Bobby and Dean followed silently, ready to catch him at the slightest sign of bolting, but Sam didn't stray a hair. He sat down on the bed, eyes downcast as Bobby strapped him in, ready for the long haul. He didn't look at them as they left him there, didn't protest as they shut the door and locked it in place. Not much a kid in his situation could do.

Dean stared in the room for a long moment, his face stoic except for the scowl tugging at his lips.

"We oughta paint a devil's trap in front of this door," he suggested evenly. "And maybe a few wards against angels, too. Just in case."

Bobby nodded. Well, if the last few days had been interesting, the next few were bound to be downright unbelievable.

o-o-o

R&R (seriously)


	4. No rest, no reprieve, no choice

Dislcaimer: No, I do not own Supernatural. I pout about this often.

A/N: Thanks again to Merisha for her awesome (and exceptionally swift, omg!) editing, and Kaorukamiya307 for cheerfully keeping me on track. This chapter's a bit shorter than the others... but this just felt like the right place to end it.

In response to some concerns: Yes, I am aware that I write them driving in a mustang. This is because the Impala is still at Bobby's yard. Also, I don't typicall write in the vernacular, but in the cases of words like "gonna" and "idjit", I do. I apologize if this is disconcerting.

Another special thanks to all that reviewed. It really does touch me that you take the time to do so and let me know what you think, and it definitely keeps my enthusiasm up. So thanks again! And for those of you who didn't review... come on, like it's that hard? *totally puts on one of Sam's bitchfaces*

Chapter 4

Two hours later, Sam was dozing on the thin mattress in the panic room. He had developed a sort of cycle. Fitful movements, trying to make himself comfortable, before giving in to his exhaustion. There would be a deepening of his breath, a stilling of the nervous twitching that had taken hold of his extremities, until at last he drifted into slumber. Fifteen minutes later, he would jerk awake, and the process would begin again.

Dean had watched every second of it, his stomach lurching with each jolt and gasp from his baby brother. This was his fault. If he'd thought things through, if he'd done what Bobby had said and reached out to him... hell, if he'd just been stronger, Sam wouldn't have felt the need to protect him.

If he'd been able to let Sam go in the first place, none of this would have happened. He wouldn't have gone to hell, wouldn't have cracked, wouldn't have broken the first seal. Sam wouldn't have become... this. This desperate, confused man an inch away from insanity and inhumanity. No, he'd be kicking it up in heaven with Mom and Dad and Jess.

No. Even after all this, Dean knew he couldn't have done that. Bringing Sam back was worth every agonizing moment. He'd do it again. And again.

Which was why the world was screwed if it had to depend on him.

Sam turned over, his large frame rising and falling with each deep breath, but his shoulders didn't relax. He hadn't relaxed since all this started. Not once.

"You wanna take a break, Dean?" Bobby asked, one hand coming to rest on Dean's shoulder.

Dean took a moment to process the question, glean some understanding from the words that poured from the older hunter's mouth. Then another moment to form an answer. No. Seemed too obvious to be worth the effort of answering, though.

"Dean?"

"We really screwed up, Bobby," Dean murmured. "Put our faith in the wrong people. I just want to say I've had it with anything and everything that isn't human."

Bobby didn't say anything right away. They both knew that, depending on the outcome of _this_ dry-out session, they might find themselves dealing with someone not-quite-human anymore on a daily basis.

Dean's stomach churned as the back of his throat burned with bile.

"Dean, if there was any time for us to tolerate and forgive each other, I figure it's now."

"Here's the thing, Bobby," Dean replied hoarsely. "Reading a fortune cookie and doing what it tells you to do ain't exactly the same thing. One's a helluva lot harder."

"He's your brother."

"Yeah." Dean swallowed. A tremble began to tug at his fingers. He clenched his hands into fists, hoping to still it, his eyes fixed on the hulking, vulnerable figure on the bed. "Yeah. He's my brother. And I couldn't save him." His voice caught and he stopped, clenching his jaw. He was more tired than he'd thought.

Bobby heaved a sigh and removed his hand, shoving it deep into the pocket of his jeans.

"Well, I guess I could tell you there was nothing you could have done," he mused. "But you're too much of an idjit to pay attention to good advice when you hear it."

Dean tried to smile, he did. But it came out as more of a tired grimace. Right now, he'd be lucky to ever smile again.

"Listen, uh, I really wish I didn't have to ask this of you," Bobby continued. "But I just got a call from the bus station. It was Jimmy Novak. He's got one more bus ride to go and he'll be here in about an hour. Now, I don't want anyone leaving the house alone, and I sure as hell don't want Sam to be left here alone. I think it'd be best if the two of you went together to pick him up."

"Why can't you do it?" Dean asked hollowly. He didn't really care why, but it felt like Bobby had something important to say on the matter. He always did.

"Because he needs his brother right now, not some crotchety old hunter. And before you go, I want you to try and catch some rest. I'll wake you."

Dean hesitated. The logic of Bobby's argument had sufficiently pierced the fog that had filled his brain, but he didn't want to leave his spot. He didn't want to miss a moment, just in case Sam changed while he was away, became something that wasn't Sam anymore.

"Dean," Bobby urged, and this time it wasn't a question. It was an order.

Stiffly, Dean shuffled away from the door, his heart tearing a little more with each step he took, tearing completely as he dragged himself up the stairs. By the time he reached the couch, it felt like his chest was bleeding freely.

o-o-o

Jimmy sighed as he stumbled off the bus, his wrinkled trenchcoat and jacket bundled in his arms as the warm, late May air swept over him. It had been a while since he'd been out in the country. Well, since he'd been out in the country and remembered it.

Blearily, he stumbled to a line of payphones at the other side of the station, overlooking a wide field of dead grass. The sight of it was unsettling, like everything in the world was dead. Well, it would be, soon enough, if things didn't go well. He suppressed a shiver and pulled some change from his pocket, sending a silent mental thank you to Chuck again for his generosity, and inserted it into the machine. His leaden fingers punched in the numbers methodically as he allowed himself to yawn. It had been hard to sleep on the bus. Worry about Amelia, Claire, the apocalypse, and even Castiel had waited in the dark each time he dared to close his eyes. Well, at least now he could finally relieve two of those worries just a little longer.

Amelia picked up on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Ames, I'm in South Dakota. I'll be with the hunters pretty soon."

There was a sigh of relief? Frustration? Resignation? on the other end.

"As long as you're safe," she conceded. "When will they reach you?"

"Soon. I called them at the last station, I'll call them again, soon."

"Good that's... that sounds good. Um, any signs of... you know."

A wry smile tugged at the corners of Jimmy's lips. Even after all they'd been through, he still had trouble believing he was actually having a conversation like this with his wife.

"No, no angels or demons. Looks like I'm off the hook so far."

"That's good."

She didn't have anything else to say. Well, neither did he, not on this subject at least, but he couldn't bear to hang up. Not yet.

"So, have you and Claire picked out a dog, yet?"

"Jimmy, it's been like a day," Amelia admonished.

"Yeah, well... you know."

"Yeah, I know."

The smile pulled harder at his lips, and the overwhelming desire to hold both of his girls in his arms swept over him. He wanted to feel them, soft and warm and undeniably alive, to smell Amelia's shampoo and the apple-scented body lotion Claire had been so fond of just a year ago. He wanted to see their faces and know with absolute certainty that they were okay. But it was an empty dream.

A sudden buzzing entered his ears, a low, staticky frequency. As the seconds ticked by, the sound grew clearer and, to his dismay, louder. His mouth went dry as he glanced over at the station. The few people around him -passengers, the driver, the large, balding man sitting at the front desk- were also frowning, some rubbing their ears painfully. As the sound increased, one woman clapped her hands over her ears, her face twisting in pain.

"Oh, God," he breathed.

"Jimmy?" Amelia's voice crackled on the other end. "Jimmy? You're breaking up."

Several more people clapped their hands over their ears, unaccustomed as Jimmy had become to the uncomfortable noise. The first woman's eyes rolled back in her head and she collapsed on the floor.

Oh, God, no. Not again. This couldn't be happening again. He had to get out of here.

"Amelia, listen to me," he begged, praying she could hear his voice over the static. "I love you. I love you and Claire so much, and that will never stop, do you understand? I love you."

"J-my... t's ha... ning?"

Clenching his jaw, Jimmy forced himself to slam the phone down on the receiver, just as the window of the bus station shattered. Well over half of the people inside were unconscious, thin trails of blood seeping out of their ears. Jimmy's head throbbed from the noise, his heart pounding as he _felt_ it, as he had so many times before.

Not daring to look up, Jimmy's shaking legs kicked into motions and he sprinted out of the station, across the dead field, arms pumping and breaths gasping. No. He'd escaped this again, he wasn't going to let it happen a third time.

Something on the ground caught his leg, and he went sprawling onto the ground. The noise was becoming unbearable and, with a strangled gasp, he clapped his hands over his ears, rolling onto his back. And there it was. Light, burning like a second sun, barreling down, out of control, screaming.

"No!" Jimmy shouted, but his voice was lost in the roar. Choking on his own breath, he stumbled to his feet, managing only a few backward steps before the light barreled into him.

His breath hissed out from between his teeth as he felt his feet leaving the ground, air whistling past his ears, fire burning every cell in his body. Blackness seeped into his mind, shielding him from the chaos and terror that had entered him and the infinite memory that threatened to overwhelm his sanity.

The last thing Jimmy Novak was conscious of was hitting the ground. Or, rather, the ground flying past him, pain blooming in his back as his momentum jerked to a rough stop. He welcomed the inevitable oblivion when it came.

o-o-o

Thanks for reading. Tune in next week.


	5. Back in business

Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Erik Kripke.

A/N: I know it's a little bit later than some of my other updates, but here it is at last. I can say with perfect honesty that it was a real treat to return a certain character in the second half of this fic. What a joy to write her. Oh, and by the way, SAMMY POV AT LAST! Don't worry, though. There will be more in the future!

Special thanks: To Merisha for betaing (and helping me work out some character developments for someone you will meet soon), Kaorukamiya307 for keeping me motivated without letting me spoil any (well, maybe a little) of the story. And, of course, to everyone who reviewed! Merisha, Kaorukamiya307, Stargazer86, Mandy543, Shinaria, and Lilithakaducky! Ya'll rock so hard! And to everyone who didn't review... I know you wanted to. *winkwinknudgenudge* But in all seriousness, thank you EVERYONE so much for reading!

Bonus treat: Okay. So I haven't exactly had any requests for this... but I've decided to start posting some youtube videos that have really helped me with the writing.

This one has really been the themesong of this whole story, so it's the first one I'm going to give to you. Really, every time I hear it I want to write more, it's so well done.

youtube. com /watch?v=spFPyWT7pcY

And just for yucks, this one consistently makes me smile: youtube. com/watch?v=M56NvAs547s (cause let's face it. He IS that sexy)

(btw, I might change the story summary... again. Just cause I don't really like it.)

Chapter 5:

Dean jerked awake, eyes wide as he struggled to familiarize himself with his new surroundings. The harsh, sporadic flashes had been replaced by a dim, consistent light, ragged screams transforming into the calls of songbirds as the blood on his hand became cold sweat. The world was at peace for the moment, but all too soon it would give way to the burning horror of hell.

"Sorry to wake you," Bobby apologized. "But it's about time you and Sam headed to the bus station."

"Huh? Oh, yeah," Dean grunted as he pulled himself into a sitting position. "Is Sam up?"

"Naw, I was just about to go wake him. You wash up a bit, get some food in you. Take some along for Sam to eat on the way."

Dean nodded numbly as Bobby stood and headed down into the basement, then set about doing as he'd been told. There was something comforting about taking an order, even if it hadn't been given in the form of an order. Took his mind off of thinking for himself for just a little while. He splashed water on his face and the back of his neck, dimly aware of the red that ran from his fingers. Huh. Still had some of Ruby's blood on him.

He skipped a shave, deciding that if it was worth doing he'd do it later, and headed to the pantry. By the time he'd choked down an aged power bar, Bobby resurfaced with a hunched, haggard Sam in tow. The younger Winchester kept his head bowed, shaggy hair covering his eyes, which remained focused on the ground. Shame didn't suit Sam all that well. Even when he was wrong, he treated his admission of it as a battle won. It was that sort of attitude that had shaped every moment of his life. Without it, Sam didn't really seem like Sam.

Dean swallowed and averted his eyes.

"Come on," he instructed, tossing Sam a power bar and heading out the door. It was better to focus on the task at hand, not on the big picture. Wait until they had Jimmy and reinforced the perimeter of Bobby's house. Then he'd have the luxury to angst about everything that had happened.

It helped, seeing the Impala again. After all that had happened, what he really needed was to drive in his own car, no dead girls in the trunk or crappy country music.

He dropped into his seat, sighing as the familiar leather creaked under his weight. Sam slipped into the passenger's seat a moment later, arms crossed, pressed tightly up against the door. Probably wished he was smaller, so he could squeeze into that tiny space a little better.

Dean pulled out of Bobby's lot, clenching his jaw tightly. The engine purred, the trees whizzing by, but that was it. The sense of camraderie was gone. It had been easy to ignore its absense in the mustang, but here in the impala, their home on wheels, it should have been there, so thick and familiar he could taste it each time he breathed.

_It was the lies, the secrets, chipping away at our trust until there was nothing left._

The silence was starting to get to him. Dean cleared his throat; Sam flinched. Not the best way to start off a conversation.

"So, ah, I guess you're wondering why Bobby wanted you to come along, right?" He made an effort to keep his voice calm, downright gentle. It seemed to coax Sam out of his shell.

Sam's eyes flicked to Dean, then back out the window, his arms stiffening momentarily as he muttered, "I guess".

"I figure this is Bobby's way of trying to get us to kiss and make up. Now, I don't know if you got my message or not, but... I meant what I said."

Sam went rigid at that, his face twisting in undisguised pain. Dean's knuckles tightened on the steering wheel, heart pounding as he waited for Sam to find his voice. Half of him wanted this conversation to smooth over all that had happened. The other half wanted to pull over and fight.

"I thought so," Sam rasped. He licked his lips, eyes dropping to his lap, then glancing forward, and out the window again, fighting the unshed tears that shone in his eyes. "What are you going to do with me?"

Dean fought the sneer of disgust that tried to worm its way onto his face. Was this what their lives had been reduced to? Really? Cause this had never been what he'd intended.

"I guess we do what we did before. Dry you out, see what happens next."

"Even after what I did?" Sam finally turned to face him, the tears finally escaping and leaving bright tracks down his face.

"I meant what I said, Sammy," Dean assured him, in spite of the squirming in his stomach. "You're my brother, no matter what. We'll get through this."

Sam let out a disbelieving huff, shaking his head slightly.

"Brother? You said it yourself, Dean. I'm a vampire. I don't even know if I can go back."

"I never said that!" Dean snapped so suddenly he lost control, hurriedly jerking the wheel before they drove into the woods. Sam gripped the edges of his seat, eyes wide with pain and confusion.

"Yes you did," he accused in a quiet voice. "In your message. And you were right."

"Bullshit," Dean grunted. "I told you I was pissed, but I apologized, Sam."

Sam opened his mouth to protest when something occurred to him. Exhaling sharply, he shut his eyes and slumped his shoulders.

"Ruby," he ground out.

Dean had to grip the wheel even tighter, his knuckles turning white now as he contemplated just what Sam might have heard.

"Damn, I wish we could go back and kill that bitch again," he mused. "I think if I got a second chance, I wouldn't end it so quickly."

Well, Dean had thought it was funny, but Sam didn't seem to hear. He still sat hunched over, lacing his shaky fingers together, tears slipping down his face as he took deep, angry breaths.

"Hey," Dean barked, reaching out and giving his little brother a shove. "Eat your power bar."

Sam flinched away from the physical contact, but he did straighten, leaning against the window once again. The power bar wrapper crinkled as he played with it, but he never opened it.

"What are we gonna do now, Dean?" he whispered, gazing dully out the window.

_What we always do, Sam. Screw up and stumble around, letting inhuman sons-of-bitches play us like violins. We'll deal with the fact that you might not be human anymore. We'll pretend to have a choice before heaven throws me to the lions and expects me to fix their problems. We'll fight and fight and die a little more every time and, if we're really lucky, we'll stop feeling every damn thing this world has to throw at us._

Sam didn't look at him, but Dean could see it in his face. He wanted to know that everything was going to be okay, and he needed to hear it from his big brother.

_I'm sorry, Sammy. It's not going to be okay. I can't comfort you anymore when I'm just desperate to hold on._

"I don't know," Dean confessed guiltily, glaring at the road ahead.

They lapsed into a stifling silence that lasted until Dean pulled into the bus station and the brothers piled out of the car. It was quiet. Not that it was the sort of station that would be bustling with life, but even a station this small should have had... something. Still, it was early. Maybe that was all.

They walked together out of the parking lot, the crunching of gravel and grass under their boots the only sound in the cool morning air.

"Something scared off the birds," Sam murmured.

_Yeah, no dip, Sherlock._

The porch lights had shattered, littering the wooden surface with tiny shards of glass. Dean's heart throbbed as his hopes for a peaceful pick-up were dashed away. Whatever was here, it was bound to be nasty. Seemed only the real badasses didn't bother avoiding a mess.

With sweating palms, he pushed the door open, the _ching! _of the doorchime cutting sharply through the air. His heart just about stopped.

Six people were unconscious around the room. Four, including the man behind the desk, had blood seeping from their ears. Instantly, their years of training kicked in. On alert, the brothers pulled their guns and knelt next to each victim, checking for a pulse and air flow, prepared to render aid if necessary. Dean couldn't help narrowing his eyes at his brother. Sam wasn't in as hot water as he'd been earlier, but... best to take that gun away later. For precaution. Shaking the unwelcome thoughts from his head, he turned his attention back to the unconscious victims.

"They're all fine over here," Dean called, sighing as he pulled away from a middle-aged woman who had managed to escape an ear-bleed.

"Yeah, here, too," Sam replied, walking over and kneeling next to his brother.

"You notice anything about these victims?" Dean asked, folding his hands together.

Sam frowned. The thought had already occured to him, then.

"None of them is Jimmy Novak."

"You call 911," Dean instructed, pushing himself to his feet. "I'm gonna check the perimeter. If he's not here, means he got lost somewhere between here and the last station.

"Right."

Sam stood, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket as Dean headed out.

o-o-o

"Yes. At least four of them have punctured eardrums... No, I arrived after-"

The soft squeak of rubber-soled sneakers dragged Sam's attention away from the operator. Heart hammering in his chest, he turned slowly around.

A girl stood, hand propped up on her waist, smirking at him like he was some kind of very funny joke. She quirked one caramel-colored brow, tilting her head to the side, short hair falling into her face as she bit her lip, the smirk turning into a full-on grin.

Sam's breath caught in his throat as he slammed the cell phone shut, turning to give his full attention to the girl.

"I'd say it's good to see you again, Sam," she mewed "But what's the fun in lying if we both know it's a lie?"

It was a demon. Every instinct, including the ones he didn't even know he had, told him as much. But it was more. This demon was familiar.

"I'm sure I'd recognize you, but you look a little different," he growled.

The demon let of a short, sweet bark of laughter, taking a step toward him. He stepped back.

"Oh, this? Used to be a pretty little choir girl. I just love those sorts, you know. And, anyway, you seem to do better talking to girly meat suits, don't you?"

His heart fluttered as he recalled the feeling of violation, black smoke forcing itself down his throat. Flashes of memory; killing a man he didn't know, stringing Dean along, tying Jo up, saying things to her that would ensure that he could never speak to her again...

"Meg," he spat, fingers clenching around his gun. If only he had the colt. It had felt good shooting the crossroads demon right between the eyes. It'd probably feel fantastic to kill this bitch.

The demon rolled her eyes.

"You people. I haven't been Meg for a long time, but if that's what you want to call me, go ahead."

"What are you doing here?" Sam snarled. "Did you cause this?"

Meg licked her teeth, raising her eyes to the ceiling. She shoved her thumbs in her jean pockets and took a few steps to the side, and Sam countered her.

"I've got a lot of firepower, Sam. But this is a little more than I can manage. I'm just here to pass on a message."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She halted, tilting her head to the side. The grin dissolved into a pinched look of irritation. Still playful, still amused, but in the way a kid couldn't help being amused by a worm wriggling across his toe. "I'm supposed to tell you that your part's not over. There's still a place for you with us. Lead our armies, fulfill your destiny, yadda yadda blah blah blah. Personally, I think you ought to go screw yourself but, wait..." The grin returned. "You already did that, didn't you?"

"Get the hell out of here," Sam growled, his knuckles shining white as he gripped the gun.

"Or what? You'll shoot me like you shot my father? Last I checked, you didn't have your gun anymore. Or maybe..." she took a step toward him. He stepped back. She licked her lips and stepped again, all but giggling when Sam countered her. "Maybe you'll exorcise me again. Or kill me? Like you killed Lillith? But then, good boys don't play with fire, do they? You've become such a bad boy, Sam."

"Shut up," Sam spat, but Meg went on.

"I'm proud of you. Now don't get me wrong. I'd love to reach into your chest and rip out your still-beating heart, but I gotta say I like how you turned out. That sweet little boy I met on the side of the road? He's gone. I don't know when it started. When Dean dragged you back from wherever, or when he left you alone. But you became quite the little fighter, way tougher than I remember you being when I was in your head. If I'd known then that this is how you would have turned out, I don't think I'd have tried to hard to get Dean to shoot you. Not that I'd even have to try now. One sneeze and he'd have you on your back, begging for mercy."

Sam felt his back press up against the bus station wall, with Meg still advancing.

"The things he could do to you, Sam. Now, he never got the chance to work me over. I'd served my punishment before he showed, but... I liked to watch. The way he'd rip them apart. I'd just love to see what he could do with his own flesh-and-blood brother, what he'd say to you, how he'd make you break."

Sam's heart lurched and, suddenly, he grabbed Meg by her shoulders, spinning her around and shoving her against the wall. Shock and fury painted her face for a fraction of a second, before being replaced by a thrill of excitement.

"Hit a nerve, didn't I? You have so many nerves to hit."

"I thought you were just here to deliver a message," Sam hissed.

"You can't rob me the chance to have a little fun, can you Sam?"

He flinched, suddenly wanting nothing more than to reach out and rip her spirit to shreds, twist it around until she screamed... but even if he could still do that, he didn't want to risk it. He'd done enough damage.

"Consider your message delivered," he snapped. "Now you go and tell the others that I say no."

"Fine with me," Meg sneered. "Just let me down, and I'll go."

Sam struggled with that for a moment. He didn't want to. He wanted so badly to kill her, to make her pay for everything that had happened to him. But if he tried and he failed, she would get away, only to possess some other poor body, and she'd come back again and again.

Scowling, he pried his fingers loose one by one, she fell to the floor. He stepped back, watching as she straightened and tugged at her tank top, smoothing the wrinkles he had created by shoving her against the wall.

"Sam!"

Sam started, head whirling around to the glass door. Dean had already taken off, racing across the wide, dead field that stretched behind the station.

"See you later, Sam," Meg mewed before turning to saunter out the front. Sam had half a mind to follow her, still itching to kill her. But he was here for a reason.

Smothering the impulse, Sam turned and ran out the door, sprinting to catch up with his brother.

o-o-o

R&R


	6. Things are not great

Disclaimer: Supernatural is not mine. Bah!

A/N: For those reading Hunter's Fatigue... I WILL get back to it! It's taking so long because I've never written a multi-chapter sick!character story before, so... I will get to it. Only posting this because I went nuts last week and wrote a little more than I expected to.

Special thanks: To Merisha for betaing and KaoruKamiya307 (see, I DID capitalize it properly!) for keeping me on track. And, of course, to everyone who reviewed! Merisha, Kaorukamiya307, Stargazer86, Primadonna Cat, ArmagonAuthor, Shinaria, and Lilithakaducky! Ya'll rock so hard! And to everyone who didn't review... I know you wanted to. *winkwinknudgenudge* But in all seriousness, thank you EVERYONE so much for reading!

Videos of the Week:

youtube. com/watch?v=ReCTH_WieqY (This one just seemed appropriate)

youtube. com/watch?v=H4X78F_Ei5g (because the boys are badass)

youtube. com/watch?v=kOyiu19bWWs (This one makes you smile. Come on, you can admit it.)

Chapter 6:

The perimeter around the office was clean, which was probably a good thing. No sulfur meant this hadn't been caused by a demon. No scorch marks, fractured body parts, or extra-dead grass meant he could rule out most of the fuglies he could think of, and of the ones that were left... well, he really didn't want to deal with anything that could take out a bus station like that. Jimmy probably didn't, either, making it all the more important that he find the man.

His boots crunched against the broken glass that littered the covered patio next to the office, his heart sinking. He remembered the feel of the shards cutting into his arms in that gas station in Illinois, the hum of Castiel's voice tearing his ears apart only after doing him the pleasure of flinging him onto the floor.

Four of the people in the office had been bleeding from their ears.

His stomach clenched as his eyes landed on a bundle of fabric abandoned by one of the payphones. Shit. Dean hurried to the bundle, already sure he knew what it was... and yes. The moment he knelt down and picked it up, he knew it was the tan trenchcoat Castiel and Jimmy had been wearing for the past year, and the cheap black jacket beneath was unmistakably a part of a three piece suit that neither had removed in that same time.

"Dammit," he hissed, dropping the garments and running a hand over his face. This wasn't what he'd come for. It should have been a simple pick-up, but evidently they'd arrived a little late. Wearily, he began to scan the open field, praying for some sign of-

There. A figure collapsed at the far end of the field, almost at the tree-line.

"Sam!" he yelled, his legs already propelling him forward, heart pumping as he raced against the dread that welled in his heart.

_Oh God, no, please no I'm sorry I didn't mean for this to happen I didn't mean for any of this Oh God please be alive, please, I never meant for this to happen..._

Halfway across the field, he heard Sam catch up to him, but he didn't slow down; not until he reached the prone figure on the ground, and then he threw on the brakes, going from sixty to zero in no time flat, dropping to his knees next to the pale, prone man. He was still, too still for Dean's liking...

"Hey, hey!" he barked, reaching down and gripping Jimmy's shoulder tightly.

_Don't move him, not until you can assess the damage Oh God his back could be broken, he could be paralyzed because we were too late..._

Jimmy started at the touch, blue eyes flying wide open, neck stiff as he turned his head from side to side in disoriented confusion.

"Jimmy? Hey, Jimmy, can you tell me what happened?" Dean said in his best John Winchester voice.

Jimmy's head swiveled in his direction. His brows furrowed as his mouth bobbed open and closed. All that came out were incoherent mumbles, which only seemed to frighten the guy further.

"It's okay," Sam breathed, reaching out to take the man's arm.

Jimmy started, so hard he might as well have been electrocuted, a strangled yelp escaping his uncertain lips as he jacknifed upward and scrambled to escape the touch. Sam sat frozen, hand still outreached. It took him only a moment to mask the naked pain on his face, his features smoothing into an expression of steady assurance.

"We need to get him out of here," he cautioned lowly.

_Does 'duh' mean anything to you, Sam, or did they neglect to teach it to you at college?_

But Dean nodded and turned back to their charge. Jimmy had gone pale and he shivered, his breaths coming in short gasps as his eyes roamed wildly.

"Can you stand?" Dean asked.

Jerkily, Jimmy tilted his head and stared at him, and damn if he didn't look just like Castiel at that moment. The thought tugged at something in Dean's chest, and he had to reign in his thoughts before they ran to the grim places the angel might be. He had to focus on the present; the apocalypse, Sammy, and the scared, confused man who couldn't quite catch his breath.

"All right, come on," Dean instructed, reaching under the smaller man's arms and heaving him up. Jimmy allowed himself to be lifted, legs scrambling uncertainly in the dirt for several moments before he managed to found his footing, though Dean still carried most of his weight.

Wait. Dirt.

Dean frowned, taking in the sight of the field for the first time. Every inch of it was covered with dead, yellow-brown grass, save for the place where they'd found Jimmy. Where he'd been thrown, maybe? It was the best explanation for the earthy track left in the otherwise flawless field. What could throw a man with enough force that he would take out a section of grass when he landed? Too many things, actually. None of them pleasant.

It was time to go.

"Come on," Dean encouraged, gently urging Jimmy to follow him. But the man was barely able to keep his knees from collapsing, much less manuever one foot in front of the other. The way he was shaking, even that was progress.

"I think he's in shock, Dean," Sam breathed.

_Again. Duh. Dude, get a dictionary already!_

"Yeah, probably," Dean grunted. Jimmy glanced from Dean to Sam and back again, and for the first time Dean noted the dilated pupils. Dammit. He really didn't have time for this.

"Sorry, dude, but we're in a hurry," Dean grunted and, in one swift motion, grabbed the man's knees and threw him up and over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. Jimmy stiffened and gasped, but thankfully didn't fight as Dean began to haul him across the field.

"Get the door, Sam," Dean grunted, clumsily tossing Sam the keys with his free hand. Sam rushed ahead, throwing open the back door of the Impala just as Jimmy went completely limp over his shoulder. It probably wasn't a good thing, medically speaking, but at least Dean didn't have to deal with trying to ease a panicking man into the back seat.

_I'll take little favors where I can get 'em._

The brothers loaded themselves into the front seat, speeding back to Bobby's just as the flashin red-and-blue lights of the ambulance appeared in the rear view mirror.

o-o-o

"And you just _found_ him like this?" Bobby hissed, his eyes flicking back to the prone figure on the couch. Jimmy lay limply on the cushions, tucked under a thin blanket as he slept.

"Yeah. He couldn't even walk. Out cold by the time I got him to the car."

Bobby sighed and removed his hat just long enough to run one callused hand through his hair, then returned it. Shaking his head, he turned and stared at Jimmy for a long time. The man looked too small, too pale lying there. By rights they should have taken him to a hospital, but it was hard to decide whether the demons hunting for a vessel or the freaking apocalypse was a bigger risk at the moment. Jimmy Novak would just have to make do with what little they could provide.

"You think it was the angels?" Bobby asked lowly.

"Looks like it," Dean murmured. "Question is, what'd they do to him? And why'd they do it in the first place?"

"You and Sam didn't figure anything out?"

Dean scowled, shoving his hands in his pockets. The moment they had returned to Bobby's, Sam had gone straight back to the panic room, looking as dejected and forlorn as a lost puppy.

"Naw, he didn't say much once we got in the car," Dean admitted. "Just kinda... sat there. It was like I was the only lucid person in the car, Bobby."

"Maybe you were."

Dean's stomach lurched.

"You think Sam's already started to detox?"

"Probably. Doin' what he did to Lilith probably took a lot of mojo. Mighta sped it up a little."

"I dunno, Bobby. I don'_I_t hear any screaming, do you?"

Bobby fixed Dean with his familiar "You're-an-idjit" look.

"The circumstances are a little different, Dean."

Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair. Bobby cleared his throat.

"Listen, Dean, I know this is difficult right now. But pretty soon we're gonna have to come up with some kinda plan of action. It's gonna be close to twenty-four hours since the final seal broke, and nothin' catastrophic seems to have happened yet. Which means when something does happen, it's gonna be enormous."

"Yeah, I know, I just..." Dean trailed off. Here he was, doing exactly what the angels had wanted of him. Taking command, taking it as a given that he was going to fight. To lay his life and his soul and his sanity on the line. Or was that just his dad's training kicking in? Seemed no matter where he turned, the whole world expected something out of him. "Let's just take care of the home front until something turns up. Get Sam through his detox, snap Jimmy out of... whatever this is. Then we'll think of something to do."

o-o-o

Sam tapped his leg anxiously, licking his lips as his stomach rolled. How long had he been locked down in this room?

Didn't matter. He had let Ruby play with him, feeding off of his fears and desires like the leech she was. He'd let her turn him into the very thing he'd been fighting all this time. He choked down a breath as his mind replayed the events of the last few days over and over in his head. He'd knocked Bobby unconscious with the butt of a shotgun. He'd thrown Dean across a room like a rag doll, wrapped his fingers around his brother's throat, and squeezed, as though snuffing out the life of his opposition would make him right, would make everything he had to do that much easier.

At least he hadn't actually done any damage. He couldn't. That had to count for something, right? It meant he wasn't a complete monster, didn't it?

"Sam."

Sam stiffened, his heart tightening as though something had reached in and squeezed it.

_It's just a hallucination. Whatever he says, it's not real._

That didn't make it any easier to turn on that lumpy little bed and see his father standing in the shadows, stricken with mingled fear and grief and anger.

"Dad," he breathed.

John Winchester scowled, stepping out of the shadows; the light only made his expression that much more terrifying.

"Dammit, Sam," he growled through clenched teeth, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Why'd you go and do this to yourself?"

"I was trying to help," Sam pleaded, his face growing warm. "I thought... I thought if I was strong enough, maybe I could-"

"You handed yourself to the demons!" John howled, grabbing Sam the scruff of his shirt and dragging him up. "After everything I taught you, everything this family has been through, I thought that you would understand the importance of keeping vigilant."

"That's something coming from you, dad," Sam whispered, when he should have shouted. "If you had so much faith in me, why'd you tell Dean to kill me?"

John's eyes widened, and for a moment Sam couldn't help wondering just whom it was that had given him his famous 'puppy dog' eyes.

"It was a precaution," John murmured.

"And for that matter," Sam went on, prying his father's fists off his shirt. "You have no right to condemn anyone for their involvement with demons. You sold your soul to bring Dean back. Do you have any idea how broken he was?"

"You don't know how hard it was," John choked. "Being a father-"

"Well, that was the first time you acted like one," Sam snapped. "Raising us the way you did. On the run, rootless, homeless... There are plenty of hunters with homes and families and lives outside of the job."

John stepped back, shaking his head slightly.

"Well, isn't this just where we always ended up?" he mused. "You and I always struggled with each other, but I don't think we're fighting to be right, Sammy." He raised his eyes knowingly. "We're fighting for power. Always have been. Guess since I left, you finally managed to grab it."

Sam reeled, the words hitting him like a sucker punch to the gut.

"Dad, no, I didn't-"

"Guess I can't blame you," his father sighed. "All your life, your brother and I took your control away. Makes sense that, when both of us are gone, you'd overcompensate a bit."

"I was trying to help, Dad," Sam insisted, reaching out to grab his father's shoulder, but John shook him off.

"Guess I did about all the damage I could do. I'm done here."

"Dad, please, don't go!" Sam begged around the lump that had formed in his throat, but John turned and walked back into the shadows. He didn't even bother to look back, just disappeared the moment the dark enveloped him.

Sam sank back onto the bed, his breath hitching as hot tears slipped down his cheeks.


	7. Wrong in the head

Disclaimer: Supernatural has claimed my very SOUL! But I make no money off of it. *shrugs*

A/N: Okay, so this was by far the most epic chapter to write (written, by the way, when I was waiting for my car to be fixed and, later, while I was hanging by the pool on a rainy day). Unfortunately, it's the last I have ready and prepared for a while, so... I'm working on it. Real life is getting in the way and stuff.

Special Thanks: Merisha for another AWESOME betaing, and KaoruKamiya307 for listening (so sorry for the spoilers...). And of course Shinaria for always leaving the sweetest reviews and Frank for dropping everything to read this. Ya'll are awesome! Hope you enjoy!

Videos: youtube. com/watch?v=mUQM_w2H5fk (This one really caused me to write this chapter)

youtube. com/watch?v=kOyiu19bWWs (Because you're gonna need something fun after this chapter)

Chapter 7:

Dean sighed and flipped the book shut. Jimmy had slept for the better part of the day, and Sam was calm if nothing else. He'd seemed a little distraught the last few times Dean had checked up on him, but had eaten the sandwich he was offered and, after asking for a bathroom break, returned solemnly to his personal prison. Still hard to decide if he preferred a screaming, fighting Sam over this quiet stranger. 'Course, everything seemed quiet right now. Dammit, the apocalypse had come, Lucifer walked free. Where were the armies of the dead? Where were the four horsemen? Where was the fire and the brimstone and weird light and pain and blood and ash and smoke that he remembered from his time down under?

So far, no amount of research could explain what was taking the devil so damn long.

Wearily, he leaned back in his chair and glanced at Jimmy... who stared back with wide, blue eyes.

Dean blinked, assuring himself that he was, in fact, seeing this, then scrambled out of his chair and hurried to the man's side.

"Hey, you awake?" he asked softly. Didn't really matter that he was stating the obvious, anyway; poor guy probably couldn't even understand him.

Jimmy moaned and shifted, one hand slipping out from under the covers. Dean stared at it blankly for a moment before his sluggish brain could recall what to do.

_Geez, this is weird. Haven't had to do this for Sammy since he was a kid._

Dean knelt down beside the couch and took the hand in a firm, hopefully reassuring grip, but Jimmy furrowed his brows and untangled his hand, going instead to touch Dean's left arm. Right where Castiel had burned a handprint right into the skin.

"D-Ddde...D..." he clucked thickly.

"Dean," Dean pressed, pushing down his discomfort at having anyone touch _that_ particular scar. If that was what the little guy needed, weird as it was, far be it from Dean Winchester to deny him.

"Dddeeean," Jimmy slurred then, blinking rapidly, he tried again. "Dean."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm Dean."

The man's face weakened with relief, but it was momentary. His brows furrowed, eyes shining with confusion. A moment later he shifted, grimacing, his eyes widening with fear.

"Jimmy?" Dean pressed. "Hey, Jimmy, you in pain?"

Jimmy turned, focusing on Dean's face as he repeated the question. Stiffly, the smaller man nodded, wincing as he did so.

"Okay, I need you to let me know where it hurts."

Again, Dean had to repeat himself before understanding dawned on Jimmy's face. Clumsily, he threw off the blanket and pressed his hand against his lower abdomen, shifting again. A million different possible maladies ran through Dean's head, each as unlikely as the next. After all, if he'd been seriously injured, he would have said something before, right?

So what...

Dean stared at the man lying on the couch. Jimmy squirmed, his eyes wide as panic began to set in. He really, honestly had no idea what was going on.

_Oh, God. I think he's brain damaged. I am so, so sorry..._

"Okay," Dean said lightly, unsure of whether to chuckle at the sight or freak out a little himself. "Dude, I'm just gonna guess, but I think you need to take a leak."

Jimmy stared up at him in confusion. Of course. Probably couldn't string two words together right now, much less figure out what one pain meant over another. Dean licked his lips awkwardly, not entirely certain what to do...

_Just like Sam. Yeah. Pretend it's like that time you had to potty-train him... 'cept Sam freaking knew when he had to go._

"All right, here we go," Dean grunted as he reached down and heaved Jimmy up by his armpits. Jimmy started at the sudden contact, but managed to get his feet on the ground. After a few awkward stumbles, he managed to find his footing and, if not walk, then at least shuffle to the bathroom, leaning against Dean the whole time.

When they reached it, Dean realized they had another problem. He had hoped that, upon seeing the toilet, Jimmy would remember what to do and how to use it, allowing Dean to exit the whole situation gracefully. Clearly, that wasn't going to happen.

Jimmy blinked owlishly at the toilet, perhaps dimly remembering its function, perhaps wondering what the hell it was. Suddenly, the man's face contorted with fear. He leaned against the sink, hands trembling. That was when Dean noticed the dark stain that spread slowly down his pants.

"Shit," Dean hissed. He lunged forward, grasping Jimmy's shoulders and giving him a shake. The spread of the dark stain slowed to a stop, but Jimmy glanced up at him with wide, panic stricken eyes.

_"What's happening to me?"_ he begged silently.

_Shit, he's definitely brain damaged._

_"_Okay, Jimmy," Dean sighed. "Don't worry, I'm gonna take care of you."

Dean gently coached a confused Jimmy through unbuttoning his pants and lowering his boxers (thankfully without having to resort to singing the "Potty Song") standing in front of the toilet, and aiming. Well, Jimmy would have to practice aiming on his own time. After that, he turned on the water for the tub and coaxed Jimmy to strip down, climb in, and wait patiently. If nothing else, he seemed to have the hang of taking orders by now, though he still looked so small and dejected sitting there in the rising water. Yeah. The bath would be good for him.

Who knew how much grime the poor sucker had accumulated in the past couple of days, aside from his little 'accident'.

"Hey, I'll be back," Dean soothed.

Jimmy stared at him, not budging. Probably didn't understand.

Dean gathered the soiled suit into his arms and took his first few steps out the door.

"Dean," Jimmy called, his voice firm for the first time since they'd found him. But when Dean glanced back, his blue eyes were still wide and lost.

"I'll be back," Dean promised, and he hurried to drop the clothes in the laundry room.

Bobby frowned at him from the kitchen table, watching as Dean dumped the clothes and a sizeable portion of detergent.

"Wanna tell me what our guest's doing without his clothes?" Bobby asked the moment Dean flipped the machine on.

Dean sighed and scratched the back of his head.

"Yeah, he's in the tub. He had a little trouble going to the bathroom. I'll give him some of my clothes."

"Did he say anything?"

"Well," Dean mused, sitting down opposite Bobby. "He figured out my name. That's about it."

Bobby nodded, tapping one finger against his open book.

"You figure out what's wrong with him?"

"Honestly?" Dean snorted. "I think he might be brain damaged. I mean, he's like a baby. Doesn't know what's what or how to do pretty much anything by himself. You any closer to figuring out what might have caused this?"

"Angel's the only thing that makes much sense," Bobby grumbled. "Doesn't make much sense even then, though, does it?"

"Nothing in our lives ever does," Dean reminded him. Bobby's whiskers twitched, a grin tugging at his lips.

"I probably ought to get back to him," Dean sighed. "Don't want him to drown in the tub or anything."

After briefly stopping by his room to grab a change of clothes, Dean returned to the bathroom. Jimmy combed his fingers through the warm water, lips pursed pensively.

"All right," Dean grunted, dropping the clothes on the sink. "Let's get this over with."

Picking up a washcloth and a piece of soap, Dean pantomimed the proper method for lathering up. Jimmy watched blankly until Dean shoved the foamy cloth into his hands.

Clumsily, Jimmy began to run the cloth over his arms and chest. Once he'd about cleaned himself up, Dean helped him to dunk his sudsy head under the water.

Jimmy did _not _like that. The moment his head was submerged he wanted _out, _and damn near snapped Dean's wrist trying to claw his way back to the air.

"Hey, hey, easy," Dean urged, holding Jimmy tightly by his wet, shaking shoulders. "You're okay, you're all right. _Jesus_..."

Jimmy gasped, his eyes roaming around the bathroom until, at long last, he seemed to convince himself that he was, in fact, fine.

Dean helped him to crawl out of the tub and handed him a towel. Jimmy followed his every order without fail.

_Well, maybe this'll make getting him into some clothes a bit easier._

"No!"

The cry broke through what fragile calm had descended upon the house. Dean's heart leapt into his throat as he turned, bolting down the stairs to the basement as though the armies of hell were on his heels.

Bobby already stood at the door, staring sadly at the figure on the bed.

"It's another hallucination," he explained lowly. Dean slipped behind him, watching as Sam leaned forward, his eyes half lidded. For a moment, Dean feared he might topple over, then,

"_No!_"

Dean's gut clenched as Sam leapt from the bed and stumbled to the bucket, puking his living guts out.

_Boy, Sammy, I do not envy you right now._

Sam leaned against the wall, panting heavily. Well, at least he'd get a reprieve. Until he started hallucinating again.

Suddenly, Sam went rigid, his head banging against the harsh concrete wall. Dean winced in sympathy, even as his jaw clenched.

"The hell is that?" Bobby mumbled, but they had an inkling.

Sam sagged against the wall and, bonelessly, fell to the floor. Before either Bobby or Dean could make a move, though, he went flying back into the wall.

"Dammit! Already?" Dean hissed, grabbing at the latches that held the door in place. They didn't budge.

Eyes widening, he yanked at the dead bolt, but it might as well have been welded shut.

"Sam!" he cried, banging on the door. "Sammy!"

"De-_augh!_"

Sam's face twisted with pain, every vein standing out on his arms as he struggled with the invisible force.

"Sam!" Dean screamed, but his only response was the bed jerking up from its position on the floor and slamming against the door.

"My God," Bobby breathed.

Dean gulped, glancing at the older hunter. Bobby's usually unflappable face could officially be considered, well flapped.

"It's Sam," Bobby choked. "He's doing this."

"Well, he's gonna stop," Dean growled, searching around for... anything. There! A crowbar tucked into the corner, probably intended to ward off ghosts on a run to the panic room. It would do.

Snatching up the crowbar, Dean began whacking at the latches. He'd damn well break them off if he had to; no way he was going to let this happen!

_SammySammynoI'mgonnasaveyouthat'smyjobevenifthingsaredifferentit'smyjobit'llalwaysbemyjobpleaseSammydon'tdothis..._

"Dean!" Bobby yelled, grabbing Dean's shoulders. He just about threw the older hunter off of him before he remembered himself.

"Sam's out cold," Bobby explained. "Let's get him on the bed again."

Again. How sick and twisted was it that this was the second time they were doing this?"

Dean swallowed thickly and, with a jerky nod, dropped the crowbar and followed Bobby into the panic room. It was miserably easy to move Sam onto the bed, like transporting a rag doll. At that moment, he didn't even look like Sam. Just looked like every other sorry son of a bitch Dean had ever helped.

o-o-o

"I'm so proud of you.

Sam stiffened, his gut clenching as he looked up. Ruby stood at the foot of the bed, smiling that benevolent, seemingly altruistic smile that she had used on him too many times.

"Get out, bitch," he snarled. Ruby rolled her eyes.

"Oh please, Sam. If you could get over yourself for like a second, you'd see what we accomplished." She sighed dreamily, tucking her thumbs into the belt loops in her jeans. "I mean, wow," she laughed. "I knew you were something the day I met you, but... that moment when you killed Lillith, I think I maybe fell a little bit in love."

"Yeah? How'd you feel when I held you down and Dean stabbed you?" Sam spat.

"A little pissed," Ruby admitted. "A little surprised. But it wasn't as bad as you'd think." Smirking seductively, she eased herself onto the bed beside him. "I mean, hard to spoil a moment like that, right? And, anyway, if it had to be someone I'm glad it was you."

She leaned in closer, slipping her hand onto his thigh, bringing her lips to his ears in that familiar way that always sent a shiver down his spine and made him feel sick to his stomach.

"You're special, Sam. You always were."

"That's why he's my favorite."

Sam whirled around.

_No. God, no, not him..._

Yellow eyes twinkled with delight in the dead janitor's face, and he smirked down at them.

"Dean killed you," Sam gasped.

"He killed Ruby here, too, but you know what they say about dead things." He raised one brow suggestively. "You're walking, talking proof that dead things don't stay dead, ain'tcha, boy?"

Bile burned the back of his throat, and it was all Sam could do to keep from gagging.

"And, anyway, death makes you stronger. You always wanted to be stronger, didn't you, Sammy?" The yellow-eyed demon grinned and walked around the foot of the bed, a shadow passing over his face. When he stepped back into the light, he was an impish, yellow-eyed John Winchester. Sam clenched his teeth, stifling the urge to gasp as the demon knelt before them, smiling with his father's worn face.

"This is what you were meant to do, Sam," he insisted in John's deep voice. "Don't sulk about it, kid. Have a party; you finally lived up to your destiny."

"Just because it's what _you _wanted me to do doesn't mean it's my destiny," Sam spat.

The demon rose, his eyes sparkling with glee. He didn't say anything, and suddenly Sam missed the teasing. It kept his mind off the pounding of his heart, the dryness of his mouth.

Sam swallowed, his eyes still fixed on the possessed face of his father, and blinked.

When his eyes reopened, John was gone, replaced by a form all too familiar.

"No!" Sam shouted, jerking back as the demon leaned over him, smirking with Sam's own face, the yellow eyes shining.

"Tell me, Sam," he mused, catching Sam's shoulders and slowing his writhing prey's movements. "If you didn't _want_ this, if it wasn't your _destiny, _then why'd you do it?"

Sam could have argued, he could have, but all that came out were strangled cries of,

"No, no, no, no..."

Ruby laughed.

"It's cause he likes it," she explained, flicking her dark hair over her shoulder, exposing her pale throat. Sam knew what she was going to do the instant she held up her wicked-looking knife, but he was powerless to stop it as she dragged the blade across the side of her neck.

Blood welled up, ruby red against Ruby's pale throat, trickling down.

_Ba-bump._

Sam's heartbeat slowed, his eyes widening as the blood traveled over her collarbone, down her breasts, _wasted._ His mouth was suddenly parched, his mind screaming for just a taste.

_Ba-bump._

Just one mouthful, and then the pain would stop. He could end it now, before things got really nasty.

_Ba-bump._

His hands shook as the demon shifted closer to him, offering him her neck. His throat throbbed, begging him to slake his thirst. Licking his lips, Sam leaned in, taking in the heady, powerful scent of the demon blood. It was like a shot of whiskey, the surge of relief when he just couldn't go any further.

_But Dean._

_Ba-bump._

He was trapped here in this room for a reason. He was trying to get back to human.

"No!" he shouted, shoving the demons back and staggering to his feet. His stomach churned, and he only just managed to stumble to the bucket at the far end of the room before the first heaving retch emptied his stomach of its meager contents.

_It's too late._

The thought sprang to his mind, unwelcome, making his throat burn as his gut clenched again, sending him right back over the edge of the bucket.

_Doesn't matter what you do, jackass. You're stuck. Not even human anymore._

The retches turned into dry heaves, tears stinging the corners of his eyes.

_You made this choice. Now live with it._

Sam collapsed against the wall, gasping for air, when his whole body went rigid. Eyes flying open, he stared down at his hands. Every vein had turned inky black, and it was traveling upwards.

_No no no not again_

Sam choked as his neck stiffened, banging his head against the rough cement wall. His skin contracted, his insides swelling up, pressing out until he thought he might explode.

Then, without warning, he went limp and fell to the floor. Wheezing, he reched forward, struggling to crawl back to the bed, his safe spot.

"Gah!" he cried as the tension returned, and Sam went flying through the air, slamming back against the wall, his wrists chained to the cement by invisible ropes.

"Sam! Sammy!'

There was a banging on the door, but Sam couldn't open his eyes to see.

"Sam!"

"De-_augh!_" he screamed as pain tore through him, fire coursing through his veins. There was a screech of metal as the bed went flying across the room.

"Sonnuva!" Dean shouted. Sam groaned, fighting to move just a finger, to crack his eyes open, but he couldn't even muster that. There was a sharp clang of metal on metal as Dean yelled, trying to break in, and Sam inherently knew that he was doing this. He was responsible. He was to blame.

He just couldn't control it.

Darkness seeped into his mind, and for once, he gladly let it steal away his consciousness.

o-o-o


	8. Small comforts

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural and, after Comic Con '09, I suspect it's in the right hands.

A/N: To those of you who haven't heard the news about season 5 yet... JUST WAIT! It's all sorts of epic!

Thanks: Kaorukamiya307 for editing, and JEBS, Merisha, Lilithakaducky, spuffyshipper, bleedingkansas, shinaria, ppg713, primadonna cat, and Frank for reviewing. HUZZAH! 10 reviews to a chapter, my goal realized at last. Ya'll rock! I now do a nerdy nerdy dance...

Videos of the week:

youtube. com/watch?v=0l4fclvcPpk ((Appropriate, I think.))

. com/watch?v=ej_VX9s0jNg ((Wonderful vid.))

o-o-o

"Come on, Sammy," Dean urged gently. "It's been six hours. You gotta eat."

Sam didn't move; he hadn't moved since he'd woken up two hours ago, relenquishing his death grip on the door. Bobby had suggested that, in light of Sam's recent telekinetic fit, it might be a bad idea to tie him down. Dean suspected he didn't want to risk spooking him into revealing more supernatural powers.

After Sam's last fit, Bobby had managed to coax Dean away from the door, insisting that he needed to look after Jimmy. Of course, Jimmy probably couldn't have found trouble if he tried. When Dean found him, he'd somehow managed to navigate his way into Dean's old jeans and boxers. The shirt, though, either escaped or fascinated him because he held it up, running his fingers over the seams and the faded Led Zeppelin logo.

Part of Dean wanted to scream at him. Couldn't he just pull himself together? They had bigger things to worry about; Sam was dying, Cas was missing, Lucifer had risen, _Sam was dying!_ And there was nothing he could do.

_Except there is. If I can help anyone right now, it's this poor son of a bitch._

So Dean helped Jimmy to slip into the t-shirt, coaxed him back to the couch, and fixed him a peanut butter sandwich. No sounds floated up from the basement. One hour since Sam had freaked out.

Jimmy wandered from his place on the couch, running his hands over the corners of the old tv, his face alight with pure fascination. Curiously, he pulled his hand away, rubbing dust between his fingers.

"C'mon," Dean grunted. "Food."

Jimmy cocked his head, lips pursed until Dean showed him the sandwich. Whether or not he understood, Jimmy paused his investigation of the tv and returned to the couch, where Dean demonstrated the proper method for biting into a sandwich. It took Jimmy a moment, but something akin to recognition lit up in his face.

Awkwardly, he picked up the sandwich, trying the spongy bread between his fingers before taking a cautious bite. His eyes widened as he slowly worked his jaw. For a second, Dean feared the smaller man had forgotten how to swallow but, at long last, he did and took another small bite.

Half a sandwich and a glass of water later, Jimmy's eyes began to droop. Dean tucked him back into the couch and snuck down to check on Sam. The door was still bolted, his brother still sprawled on the floor. Bobby shook his head sadly and sent Dean back to the living room. Two hours now.

He collapsed in a chair and let the last few days wash over him like a tide.

_God, we are so screwed._

The next thing he knew, Bobby was shaking him awake.

"Dean," the older hunter murmured. "Sam's awake. We should probably get some more food into him, but he won't take anything from me."

And so Dean found himself trying to force a spoonful of breakfast cereal into his twenty-six year old brother's mouth. Sam didn't even seem to realize Dean was there. He lay limp as a rag doll, shoulder and forehead pressed into the wall, dull eyes staring at nothing.

"Sammy," Dean groaned. "Come on, you love this stuff. Even after you went to college and turned into a health nut, man you still ate Lucky Charms whenever you could get 'em."

Sam blinked and took a shuddering breath.

"Sam?"

Sam blinked again, a shadow of pain flicking across his face.

"I played right into his hands, Dean," he rasped. "All this time... we thought we were winning. But in the end I did exactly what that yellow eyed bastard wanted. Freed Lilith, freed Lucifer... You killed him and he still got his way."

There was no inflection in his voice, no emotion; just weary resignation.

"Come on, Sam," Dean begged. "Don't do this to me."

But Sam had retreated back into his shell.

"_Come on!_" Dean barked, slamming the bowl down and splashing milk all over the floor. Sam didn't even flinch.

All at once, Dean was exhaused again. Story of his life; taking care of someone who didn't want the help, saving people who didn't care to be saved, fixing other people's mistakes and being cursed for it. If only for a few hours, he was done.

"Fine," he sighed, leaving Sam behind and slamming the door behind him.

o-o-o

Cold stone pressed into his forehead, salt and iron that made the poison in his veins scream even as he welcomed the safety it offered. The fan blades churned overhead with a faing _fwoosh, fwoosh._ Dean was trying to talk to him. Pressing something to his lips. It was cold. It felt nice.

_Food. He's trying to make you eat. He wants to keep you alive._

Sam remembered the taste of the vomit in his mouth. Food would only make it worse.

They spoke, and Dean grew upset. Why wouldn't he be? It was the truth, but Dean had never cared much for the truth. In Dean Land, the level of failure that Sam had reached was unacceptable.

_Does this mean I've been deported? Because Sam Land is looking pretty damn empty right now._

But he'd made his bed. Now he had to lie down and writhe in it.

That hadn't always been the case. Once upon a time, he'd been able to share his bed with someone. He'd slept safely, happily, in the arms of the one person who had never made him feel strange or unworthy.

Bare feet padded against the floor. Groggily, Sam glanced up.

She was beautiful. Of course, she always had been. Her blonde hair fell over her shoulders and God could he remember running his fingers through it when they made love. She was wearing the same sundress she'd worn the day they met, the day they moved into their apartment, the night they went to see "Kingdom of Heaven" together. She'd smiled on all those occasions.

She wasn't smiling now.

"What have you done, Sam?" she breathed, eyes wide as she took in the sight of him. "Look at you."

He swallowed and tried to say her name, but all that came was empty air. Jess's brows pinched.

"I mean, that demon killed me, and you go and do what he wanted? Sam, if a demon wants you to do something bad, then I think it would be in your best interest to stay out of the morally gray altogether."

"I..." Sam licked his lips, searching his fuzzy mind for some sort of explanation. "I was just trying to help."

"Great job, Sam," Jess snapped, turning around and rubbing her forehead. The anger seeped out of her face, leaving only weary resignation. That was one more thing Sam loved so much about her. She was strong, and she had a wicked temper, but she didn't hold onto her anger long. When she gave up and stopped being mad about something, that was a pretty good sign that everybody in the vicinity should follow her example.

"You should have told me," she sighed. "I'd have thought you were nuts, sure. But you could have tried to prove it to me. We should have worked this out together."

"I know. Jess, please, I'm so sorry," Sam pleaded. Jess turned back to him, one brow raised. Sam swallowed again. "I should have been there to protect you. And I wasn't."

"Yeah, well, there wasn't much you could have done. But maybe if you hadn't repressed this crap for so long you wouldn't be here, locked in this room which, by the way, you kinda deserve."

"I know." Sam's lips twitched. "We both knew I'd never get by without you."

Jess scoffed and rolled her eyes.

"Sam Winchester, I swear! You are such a baby sometimes." She smiled sadly down at him. "But I guess if that really was the problem we'd have never gotten together."

She tucked the dress around her knees and eased herself down onto the floor, sitting right next to him. Her full lips pulled back into a grimace.

"You look like crap, Sam."

"You look beautiful," he replied, and Jess laughed.

"Oh! So you seem to think flattery's gonna get you out of the doghouse? Fat chance. You're still in trouble."

"Then why are you even talking to me?"

"You mean why am I not beating you to the ground and making you feel like scum?" Jess tilted her head, her face pensive. "Cause you've got enough of that, Sam. You hate yourself right now, I get that. But that doesn't mean I have to hate you. Sam." She took his arm and caught his eyes.

"What happened to me was not your fault," she told him earnestly. "You made a mistake, not telling me about your family. But those dreams of yours? We both thought they were just nightmares. You didn't call that thing up and tell it to do what it did."

"I might as well have," Sam muttered. "He killed you cause I was gonna ask you to marry me, Jess."

"I know." Jess tried to smile, but it fell just short of her beautiful blue eyes. "Doesn't change anything."

Sam bit the inside of his cheek. There was no point arguing this with her; he and Dean had been over this point over and over again, and he had nothing to argue that she wouldn't shoot down. For a pre-med student, Jess would have been one hell of a lawyer.

"C'mere," Jess sighed, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and cuddling up close to him. "Just close your eyes and try to get a little rest."

He should have fought it. After all, the warm body pressed to him wasn't his girlfriend. It wasn't even her ghost. Just a hallucination he had fabricated because he just needed a break from the hate and self-loathing. But the smell of her hair, the feeling of her gently calloused hands -so different from his own- the tickle of her breath against his neck. It made it easier to close his eyes and pretend he was back in Stanford. He felt like crap because he'd just crammed for a test for forty-eight hours straight, hadn't had anything but coffee and gum in all that time, and he'd still managed to bomb it. This was just the part where he collapsed in the living room, feeling like crap, and she reminded him that, in the end, it was just a stupid test and she was there and she would always be there...

"Sam."

His eyes flew open. Mary stood on the other end of the room, but this wasn't the same woman who had encouraged him to drink the demon blood, to kill Lilith. This was his mother staring at him; the same beautiful woman who had saved him from a poltergeist. Her eyes were wide, her hands clapped over her mouth in horror.

"What have you done to yourself?" she gasped.

"Mom," Sam choked, his heart racing.

"Ssh," Jess soothed, catching his chin and forcing him to look at her. "Sam, it's not real."

"My family," Mary lamented. "John, Dean... and now you, too. My family is gone."

"It's just a hallucination, Sam," Jess reminded him. "That's your own guilt talking. Let it go."

"You're supposed to be my brother?"

Sam's head snapped around. A young man stood, half covered in the shadows, mouth half open in shock.

"Adam?"

"Is this what you would have had me do, Sam?" Adam demanded. "Become a hunter like you? Like Dad? You were preaching about how important it was to be a hunter, and you go and turn yourself into one of those _things?_"

"I'm sorry-"

"The things that are out there... they killed my mom. They killed _me_! Maybe it's better that we never met. I'd rather die than become one of them."

"Sam!" Jess shouted, grabbing his face again. "Stop looking at them. They aren't real, they'll only hurt you."

"Sammy!" a gurgled choke rang out. Sam didn't need to look over to know that it was Dean, ripped apart by hell hounds, bleeding on the floor of the panic room.

"Don't look," Jess whispered, pulling Sam's face down to her shoulder.

"Sammy, please!" Dean sobbed. "This is what I died for? I gave everything for you, Sammy. Don't leave me like this."

Sam gripped the legs of his pants, hands trembling as Dean let loose a blood-curdling scream that sent the hair on the back of his neck standing up. God, this was happening again. It shouldn't have happened in the first place.

"He brought me back," Sam murmured into Jess's shoulder. "I think I came back different. Before Dean's deal I would have never considered..."

"Ssh," Jess soothed, running her hand through his hair. "Sam, it's over."

Sam sighed, allowing his breathing to return to normal as Jess rubbed his back, whispering reassurances into his ear.

"I'm so sorry, Jess," he breathed.

"It's okay, Sam."

"I wish we could have gotten married."

"Me, too." Jess smiled against his ear. "It'd have kinda weird though. I'd have had to learn about your family eventually."

"I was such an idiot; I should have told you the secret. Don't know how I thought I could keep it forever."

"It sure would have led to some awkward Christmas parties."

Sam chuckled at the mental image. It wasn't easy to imagine Dean and Dad loitering around an apartment, egg nog in hand, talking ghosts and demons with Jess.

A sudden pain stabbed behind his eyes. Sam winced, pulling back sharply and pressing the heels of his palms into his temples. Images flickered through his mind like a faulty movie projector.

"Agh!" he gasped as the pain grew white-hot, burning through his brain.

"Sam!" Jess gasped, her voice muffled and distant.

"_Aaugh!"_

He fell down to the ground, curling into himself, clutching his throbbing head.

_People were dying. Ghosts roamed, peaceful spirits turned bitter and vindictive in the apocalypse. A psychic's screamed, blood boiling from his throat. Despaired people threw themselves from buildings, held guns to their temples, begged for mercy as spirits and demons ripped them apart from the inside._

"Sam! Sam, I'm right here. _Sam!"_

o-o-o

He was not what he had once been. Amidst the blur of incomprehensible motion rushing past him, he knew this one thing to be true. There was much he had once known, much he had once experienced, and he could feel all of it so close but infuriatingly beyond his grasp.

It was the form he now inhabited; too small, its mind too simple. Each time he attempted to stretch, he pressed against a cramped, crowded space, his head aching from the effort.

He was not alone. Each time he shifted his, _their_, mind, the other countered him, just as small and scared and confused as he was.

They met on occasion, wandering through memories and dreams of dark and overwhelming light, blonde-haired females laughing and crying through the mist.

"Who are you?" he asked the other one.

"I don't know," the other replied. "Who are you?"

"I don't know."

The world came and went, bright and dull. At times, he could feel it; warm air against his skin, strange tastes in his mouth. When the world dulled, he knew it was the other who experienced all of it.

Muffled sounds came from a man with a familiar face. The sounds, he came to realize, were representative of ideas, and there was a sound representative of the familiar face. He knew the sound.

_Dean._

The face loomed over him, speaking gently. He clucked, trying to make the sounds that belonged to the face. The other whispered to him, teaching him to make the sounds.

Then there was discomfort, and leakage from his body. Fear gripped him, but the familiar face taught him and comforted him.

"It's going to be okay," the other one soothed.

"How do you know?"

"I don't."

'Then why will it be okay?"

"Have faith?"

"What is faith?"

The world dimmed as they were eased into the warm water. It felt nice against the skin, and the other ran their hands through it.

"Water," the other thought. "I know water. I _like_ water."

"Then I like water, too."

Until the water closed over his head. Then it was the dark, suffocating them, cutting off the world. He retreated into memory.

When he returned, the other had recalled many 'words', but not the means to speak them.

_Shirt. Pants. Sink. Wall._

And some of the words spoken by the familiar one.

_Pain. Bath. Calm._

The world brightened, but the other continued whispering words.

_Room. Television. Dust._

Then there was _food._

Soft, spongy bread, sweet with grain, wholesome and sustaining. The bread enveloped a butetr, salty and sweet and rich, sticking to the roof of his mouth as the taste overwhelmed his senses. He nearly dropped the food, but the other one interjected.

"Don't. Eat more, it will help."

Numbly, he followed the other's instructions until the familiar heavy feeling returned, bidding him to walk once more in dreams.

o-o-o

When the world pulled him out of his dreams, it was different. The light that had filtered in was gone. There were words for these things, the times when the world shone with light and the times that it did not, but he couldn't remember.

The familiar face -Dean- slept beside him on a curious... thing.

"Cot," the other provided at a length, and he trusted the other one's judgement.

The others he knew to be in the house -the less familiar face and the man with the whiskers- were still missing as they often were. Blinking owlishly, he glanced around the room, taking in the assortment strange objects scattered about the rooms.

Then he saw _her_ sitting at the foot of the couch, as though she'd been there all along. Bright, red hair fell over her shoulders. Blue eyes sparkled in her sad, pale face.

"Woman," the other offered weakly.

"Who is she?"

"I don't know."

"What is she called?"

"I don't know."

"She was in our memories."

"Yes. Our feelings for her are conflicted."

The woman looked him over, her face filling with grief.

"Castiel," she murmured, reaching forward to take his hand.

"Anna!" a voice warned from the corner. A man in a suit stood there, his expression sour.

"The woman is called 'Anna'," the voice offered. "And we are called 'Castiel'."

"But Dean calls us 'Jimmy'," he argued.

"We are both."

"The man in the suit doesn't like Anna."

"No."

"Do we like Anna?"

"We..." the other hesitated. "We aren't... sure."

"Castiel?" Anna's voice was firmer now. Was she scared of the man in the suit? "Cas?"

He tilted his head. The second word was familiar, too. It meant the same thing as the first.

Anna sniffed and closed her eyes.

"I am so sorry this happened to you, Cas," she whispered. "But I have been permitted to speak to you about what happened because it's my fault."

The man in the suit scowled in the corner.

"She knows who we are!" the other cried.

"We know who we are. We can't remember, but we know."

"She's going to help us."

"To start with," Anna began, interrupting his internal dialogue. "You're an angel. You disobeyed because I convinced you that it might be the right thing to do. You were trying to help Dean, but it didn't work."

She nodded at the familiar face on the cot. He hadn't stirred since Anna had arrived.

"But to do so was foolish and blasphemous," the man in the suit interjected. A torrent of emotions raged at the sound of his voice.

"Respect," the other named helplessly. "Fear, love, anger, understanding..."

"In order to punish you," Anna went on. "You were forced to fall. But it happened too fast, and you fell back into your vessel. You hear a voice in your head. That's him. That's Jimmy Novak."

The other reeled, then drifted away from his perception, leaving him alone with Anna.

"Everything is going to feel different, and I can only guess at how hard it's going to be, sharing your body with someone else... but this is your punishment."

Her blue eyes met his and a sea of sorrow and remorse washed over him. The other was gone, so there was no one to identify the strange things her sorrow stirred within him. There was love, which he knew... and relation, like the man in the suit. But it was different. Anna was closer to him, on the same level.

A memory stirred. Something he had called her.

Sister.

He tried to form the words on his lips but, without the other's assistance, all that came out were garbled sounds. This made Anna even more sad.

"You are to remain with Dean Winchester," the man in the suit instructed, abandoning his perch in the corner. His gray eyes were deep and wise, but filled with cold anger.

He had angered the man in the suit. He and Anna, both.

"You will not be harmed so long as you do," the man in the suit continued. "But to leave his side would be suicidal. We took an awful risk giving you so lenient a punishment, Castiel. Try not to get yourself killed."

"You will remember more," Anna promised. "But Jimmy will remember before you do. Maybe he'll help you." She tried to smile, but fell short of actual happiness. "It'll get easier, once you've been here a while. Pretty soon you should be able to understand the humans when they're speaking to you. And this isn't going to be permanent. Just until our superiors feel you've learned your lesson."

"You should count yourself lucky," the man in the suit informed him. "We can't afford to kill angels who oppose Lucifer right now. Anna." He turned his cold stare to the woman. Morosely, Anna dropped her head and, in a whisper of a second, she was gone. Frowning, the man knelt over the couch.

"You decided you wanted to save a bunch of monkeys," the man sneered. "Well, here's your chance to find out whether or not they were worth saving. And be sure to relay all of this to Dean Winchester. He deserves to know the consequences of his actions."

The man in the suit pulled away and, in the span of a blink, he was gone as well.

Weariness returned, and he found himself walking along darker memories than he ever had before.

o-o-o


	9. Too Much

Disclaimer: Don't own it. Darn.

A/N: Sorry, I know it's later than usual. My muse is being a jerk right now... looking at anything I try to write and going "WTF!?"

Thanks to: Lilithakaducky, Kaorukamiya307, Merisha, Gabriel99, Dory's Human Replica, ppg713, stargazer86, (Mrs.) Heather, Spuffyshipper, Armagonauthor, Frank, and Shinaria for your lovely reviews!

Chapter 9

o-o-o

Dean sighed and scratched his nose. It had been days, now, since that night in the convent, and so far the world hadn't erupted in chaos. Or, if it had, the news didn't see fit to cover it. Rufus called once to ask for news, and didn't seem too surprised that Dean had none to give. Ellen called some time after that, said she was back with Jo and they were hunting together, but he had nothing to tell them, either. Bobby had finally gone to sleep and, when he wasn't screaming, Sam slept, too.

At least, in the midst of all of this, he had found one thing that could take his mind off of everything; tv. Or, more realistically, Jimmy's reaction to the tv.

He leaned over, eyes wide as the images flashed across the screen. The first few times Dean had changed the channel, he had jumped in surprise, eyes flicking from Dean to the screen and back again. Occasionally, he would mutter the names of the things he saw under his breath. "Bear" during a hunting show, "Flower" during an allergy medication commercial, "Game" during the last quarter of a football rerun. He had no words to describe an advertisement for Viagra, though, and it was probably better that way.

"Sun," he muttered as Dean flipped to the travel channel, which was currently showing a special on Tahiti.

"Yeah," Dean grunted, leaning back against the couch. "Wait 'til we get you out to see the real thing, Jim. It's something else."

Jimmy turned and blinked at him, cocking his head to the side. Breathlessly, he mouthed the name, trying it out in his head before forming the word.

"Jim... Jimmy."

"That's right," Dean encouraged with a nod. "Jimmy Novak, Pontiac Illinois."

Jimmy furrowed his brows, tilting his head to the other side, eyes searching the room aimlessly, as though he was listening to something inside his head. No, that was _exactly _what he was doing. For a brief moment, Dean considered getting up and grabbing a chair, cause sharing a couch with a schizophrenic was not on his top ten list of things to do today.

_Please don't let him be crazy. 'Course, knowing the universe's sick sense of humor, he probably will be._

"No," Jimmy murmured. "No no... not. I'm not."

_Holy shit did that bastard just read my mind!?_

Dean swallowed. Jesus, he'd had his fair share of psychics, and wouldn't it be just freaking perfect if it turned out that psychic was a prerequisite for a vessel? If that was the case, maybe it was time to take the damn tv's advice and "Head to Tahiti now!"

"Not what?" he asked, forcing his voice to come out a little more gently than he felt. After all, if Jimmy was schizophrenic and/or psychic, spooking him would probably be a _bad _idea.

"Not... Jimmy." Blue eyes stared imploringly up at him. "I'm not Jimmy."

Dean's heart thudded once, twice, them everything crashed to a halt.

"You're not..." Dean cleared his throat. "You're not Jimmy?"

"No..." the smaller man's eyes dropped to the floor. "I'm Cas...tiel. Castiel." The words came out slowly, deliberately, like a drunk trying not to slur.

And just like that, his heart kick-started again. Suddenly, the weird, alien situation he'd found himself in was a little less alien than it had been a second ago. This guy who'd been living with them these last couple of days... he wasn't really a stranger. Not anymore. He was _Cas, _alive and breathing and definitely, definitely not currently at the mercy of Zachariah and his cronies. Part of Dean knew he should treat the situation with a little skepticism. After all, Jimmy could be crazy, could have developed a split personality and given it Cas's name but... the lights and windows at the bus station? The bleeding ears? The way this guy sometimes looked and acted _just like Cas!_ Just once, he felt like taking this at face value.

Before he really knew what he was doing, he pulled the man into a tight hug, breathing a sigh of relief.

_Oh God, thank you thank you so much damn at least one thing's going right..._

Castiel stiffened at the embrace and, as Dean pulled away, he didn't relax.

"Uh, sorry," Dean offered weakly, though he couldn't recall a time in his life when he'd had to apologize for hugging someone. "That's... that's something you do when you're really happy to see someone, or you've just gotten some really good news or..."

Castiel's eyes returned to the ground in that same look of concentration as he struggled to summon the right thing to say.

"It's... different," he explained. "Touch. Feeling. It's different."

"Yeah, well, I guess angels aren't exactly the touchy feely types, huh?"

And boy, did that sound weird. Even though he'd had a year to get used to the whole 'Angels Are Dicks' reality, it was still bizarre to think of himself as more cuddly than one of the winged "God it Great, God is Good" types.

Castiel opened his mouth to respond, but abandoned the effort. Either he didn't really have a response to that, or he couldn't quite say it. Ah well. It was a rhetorical question to start with. Anyway, they had more pressing matters.

"Cas," Dean urged, moving to catch the angel's eye. Castiel hesitated a moment, but glanced up at last. "What happened to Jimmy, then? Last time I talked to him, he was definitely alone in there, if you know what I mean."

Castiel frowned, but this time the words came more easily.

"Jimmy... Jimmy is here," he fumbled. "Helping... speak. Helping _me_ speak. Alone, but I fell. Back. I fell back."

"Wait," Dean interrupted. "You fell or you, you know, _fell?_"

Castiel swallowed, breaking eye contact as a pained expression came upon his face.

"Fell. Pain, anger... Gone. Light and warmth, gone. Was... _pain_... and fear."

"They ripped out your grace?" Dean translated.

Castiel's eyes widened.

"Grace," he murmured. "My... my grace."

At that, his face crumpled. He took a deep breath, clenching his hands together.

"Never go home," he moaned, wrapping his arms around his waist. "Gone... gone..."

He doubled over, still keening softly. Awkwardly, Dean rested a hand on Castiel's trembling shoulder, but that only seemed to bother the angel, no, _former _angel more.

Gritting his teeth, Dean rested his head on his hands and closed his eyes. He'd hoped that finding Castiel again would be something to be happy about, but... he couldn't blame him. Poor bastard had been evicted from his home, stripped of his power, and forced to share a body with someone while trapped in a world that was going to come crashing to an end.

_And this is his punishment for helping me. Do I know how to thank the guy who dragged me out of the Pit or what?_

"I'm sorry," Dean sighed. "I really am."

o-o-o

Hunger gnawed from within his belly. For the first time in a lifetime, he felt something so different from the skull crushing pain that accompanied the visions. It was uncomfortable, but novel in its familiarity.

With a soft groan, he cracked open his eyes and glanced blearily around the room, at last catching sight of the ceramic bowl waiting for him.

_It's probably all mush by now,_ he mused. But mushy cereal was better than nothing.

He heaved himself up with a grunt and reached for the bowl, relieved to see that the cereal inside was fairly fresh. Bobby or Dean must have replaced the bowl from earlier with this.

The first bite landed uneasily in his stomach. The second was better. By the third bite he realized he wasn't hungry, he was _starving, _and he wolfed down the rest of the bowl, noting in passing that it was Lucky Charms. Dean probably wouldn't have left the house now that the apocalypse was on, which meant he'd picked up a box before the first round of demon detox. Dean officially rocked.

"See anything interesting?"

Sam started, nearly dropping the now-empty bowl. Jess leaned against the wall beside him, one eyebrow quirked. Sam snorted and set the bowl aside before closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. Now that his hunger was satisfied, he could focus on the dull, throbbing pain leftover from his marathon of visions.

"I'm serious, Sam," Jess chastised. "Your visions mean bad things are gonna happen. Don't you kinda feel responsible to take action?"

"Yeah. Took action once and look where that got me," Sam muttered, dropping his hand and glancing over at Jess, who had left her perch to sit beside him. She gave him one of her 'looks' and Sam sighed.

"Listen, Jess, those were the rules back when Azazel was still alive," he explained. "Azazel's dead, and we have no way of knowing what these visions mean. I haven't had one in years."

"Sam." Jess caught his arm, and damn if her hand didn't feel so warm at that moment. "I know you don't want to act, but you know you have to."

"How do I know?"

There is was. The 'Look' again.

"Because I'm a hallucination created by your subconscious mind, and I say you have to, and I'm pretty much always right."

"Jess-"

"Sam, you do realize that you're pretty much externalizing an internal battle that you've already lost."

Sam huffed, a smile breaking onto his face. He had missed this, sparring with Jess.

"All right," he challenged. "If I've got to act, where do I start? I just had the mother of all vision runs and they were all over the place."

Jess smiled sadly at him.

"You're about to find out."

Sam blinked, but before he could so much as utter a 'What?', the dull ache in his head flared up, stabbing him right between the eyes.

"Oh, damn!" he gasped, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut. Images swam through his head; _a small town, people screaming as black-eyed neighbors laughed, chasing them through the streets, torturing them. A girl ran to the street, gasping for air as a house burned down behind her._

_A clocktower shimmered in the haze of the afternoon sun, the clock chiming three._

The vision faded, leaving Sam shaking and sweating on the floor of the panic room.

"Sam?"

He glanced up into her blue eyes.

"We have to find that town," he gasped.

o-o-o

"Dean!"

Dean stiffened. On the one hand, this could be a false alarm. Sam was coming off of the high of his life; could be that whatever was in that basement, he didn't want to see it. And he'd seen so much in the last couple of days.

On the other hand... Sam could need him. He spared a glance at Castiel, who hadn't budged since he'd curled into himself. It'd probably be good to give him some alone time, anyway.

"_Dean!" _Sammy's voice began to grow frantic.

Swallowing a thrill of fear, Dean hurried down to the basement and opened the small window into the panic room.

"Sam?" he called.

"Dean," Sam rushed to the door, eyes wide. "We've gotta go now, I don't know how much time we have."

"Sam, what are you talking about?"

"There's a town it... it has a clock tower. It's gonna be overrun by demons, Dean, and there's this girl. I don't know, she's important and they're gonna kill her, they're gonna kill _everyone!"_

"Sam," Dean toned, shaking his head. "Calm down, okay?"

"It was a _vision, _Dean!" Sam cried. "You know better than to ignore them."

"Bullshit," Dean snorted. "Azazel's dead, I killed him. You haven't had a vision since then."

"I'm telling you, Dean, it was a vision. And if we don't go now, all those people are gonna die and their blood is gonna be on our hands."

He couldn't do this right now. Sam was raging like a lunatic, and indulging those fantasies of his would only hurt them all in the end. Even if the visions were real... what? Go running in there, guns blazing, save the town and free the world? Fat chance that would happen. These things were hell-sent, and he was dont trusting the morally ambiguous.

"Get some rest, Sam," Dean grunted. "I'll bring you some food in a bit."

"Dean, no!" Sam exclaimed, but Dean shut the window on him.

o-o-o

Dean smeared peanut butter over the slice of bread with a little more vigor than was strictly necessary, his foot tapping nervously on the floor.

"Hey, Cas, you want something to eat?"

No response. Dean glanced over at the living room, and grimaced. Castiel sat still, watching tv stonily. Any awe he'd had had been drained the moment he remembered exactly who and what he was. Still, all things considered, Dean had to suppose he was taking it well. His arms were still wrapped around his sides, he was still pulled tightly into himself, but at least he continued muttering the names of things to himself. Maybe that meant Jimmy was in pretty good condition.

Licking his lips, Dean returned to the sandwich, sloppily throwing the second slice of bread over the top. Hopefully Sam would be able to keep it down. He needed his strength right now, if they were going to get through this.

Of course, that was assuming Sam would even talk to him, or do anything but babble on and on about the town with the clocktower. For all he knew, it didn't even exist. People saw some crazy things when they were in detox for run-of-the-mill drugs, much less demon blood.

The thought send a chill down Dean's spine. How did any of this happen? Before, it had been simple; find bad things, kill bad things. Becoming bad things had never been a part of the equation. He didn't know what to do...

His eyes strayed to the line of phones Bobby had propped up on the wall. There was one person who might be able to give him a few answers. Granted, the answers were supposed to be 'divine', coming from the same guys who stood back and cheered while all of this had happened. But hey, he'd bite.

Setting aside the sandwich, Dean reached for one.

_RING! RING!_

And very nearly jumped out of his skin as it shrieked beneath his hand.

_The hell? Since when does anyone use the D.C. line 'cept me and Sam?_

He snatched it up on the third ring.

"Hello?" he barked in his best 'cop voice'.

"Dean?" a voice squeaked. "Oh, thank God you're alive."

Well, Dean hardly doubted that God had anything to do with that. All the same.

"Chuck?" He cleared his throat. "Hey, you all right?"

"Well... my house is trashed, and I've got a hell of a headache... I mean, not to mention hell or anything cause I know how much you hate it even though you pretend it doesn't bother you-"

"Chuck," Dean interrupted. "Are you gonna get to the point?"

"Uh, right." Chuck gulped. "Sorry, it's just... it's been tense lately Um, has Sam had any visions yet?"

Dean's stomach plummeted, and he very nearly dropped the phone.

"Say that again?"

"I'm part of the story now," Chuck babbled. "In my vision, Sam had a vision and then I saw myself calling you and telling you about the town and how to get there and what you needed to do once you got there."

"Yeah?"

"Uh... here, you got a pen?"

Ten minutes later, Dean tucked a napkin with all the information into his pocket, where it weighed like an anvil.

"Hey... tell Cas..." Chuck swallowed. "Tell him it's gonna be okay, all right?"

"Why?" Dean snorted. "You have a vision or something?"

"No. But it might make him feel better."

Like that would really make a guy who just got booted to a lower plane of existence feel like a million bucks.

_Yup! And once he feels better we can hop on our unicorns and prance away to Candy Mountain!_

"Yeah, sure,"

He hung upand slunk into the living room.

"Hey, Cas. That was Chuck."

Castiel tilted his head, his eyes fixed not so much on the tv as the wall behind.

"He says that a vision that Sam just had is the real deal, and that we ought to check it out..." He licked his lips awkwardly. "He, uh, also said to tell you that it would be okay."

Not even a flicker of emotion touched the former angel's face. Castiel inclined his head, then turned his attention wholly back to the tv. Great. Just great.

"Sam," he called, throwing open the door of the panic room. Sam shot up from his spot in the corner, his expression shifting from sheepish to intent. He'd ask about that later.

Dean set the plate on the bed and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Eat that," he instructed. "Then wash up. We're heading out in an hour."

o-o-o


	10. How you doing

Disclaimer: Don't own it. Darn.

A/N: Sorry it's late. And short. Real life is being kind of a pain right now...

Thanks to: Lilithakaducky, Neko-Cat-Sama, Serenityblue, Psychee, Kaorukamiya307, Merisha, Spuffyshipper, Frank, and Shinaria for your lovely reviews!

Chapter 10

o-o-o

The drive to the town was long, slow, and quiet. Especially quiet. Even the pounding tunes of Led Zeppelin couldn't pierce the oppressive silence that threatened to suffocate him.

"How you doin', Sam?" he asked in an attempt to fix that.

Sam stiffened, his eyes shifting away, hands clenching in the seat beside is legs.

"'M fine," he mumbled.

_Right. Ask anti-Christ superstar how he's doing this fine day. I'm sure he's chipper._

"Cas?" he called, glancing in the rearview mirror. "You doing all right?"

Castiel pried himself off of the window, staring balefully at him. Not entirely unlike a man on death row.

_Wow, I really know how to make people feel special, huh?_

After that, he cranked up the music, focusing on the familiar lyrics until they rolled into a motel parking lot near the center of town.

Sam started, taking a noisy breath.

"In my vision..." he swallowed. "This motel was burning."

"Guess that means we made it in time," Dean suggested.

Castiel had nothing to say on the matter, which Dean hoped was a good thing.

Of course, once they got into their room, they faced a whole new problem; who would sleep on the lumpy-looking couch.

"Dammit," Dean muttered. "Knew we shouldn't have brought Cas."

Sam shot him a pissy look.

"Dean, he just about freaked at the thought of being separated."

"I know, I know," Dean grumbled, glancing back to the former angel, who stood by the table, watching them. He hadn't let Dean out of his sight for more than ten minutes since they'd left the safety of Bobby's house... and that had been pushing it. He'd been jumpy as all hell when they'd taken a bathroom break.

In the end, Dean took the couch for the first night, along with most of Sam's pillows. Sam would take it the second night and, if they stayed a third night, Cas would take it then.

"Okay," Dean grunted. "You two sit tight, I'm gonna set up some wards outside."

"Dean," Sam hissed, dropping his bag and hurrying to Dean's side. "What about Cas?"

"I'll be right outside."

"What am I supposed to do with him?"

"I dunno, tell him a bedtime story. But I don't want either of you leaving the room until it's warded and we've got a plan, okay?"

Sam clenched his jaw, the protest dancing on the tip of his tongue.

"Fine," he muttered. "Just hurry up, okay?"

o-o-o

Chuck started awake, his head throbbing, heard pounding to the same pulse as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. Bile burned the back of his throat, and it was all he could do to keep from vomiting right there on the couch.

He swallowed, shutting his eyes and waiting for the nausea to subside. That was it. No more drinking at night.

Okay. Well. No more drinking on nights when he got that strange floaty feeling that something prophetic and important was on its way.

Unless he'd had a really, really bad day.

Scratch that. Maybe he needed to start drinking all the time, cause it didn't look like it was going to make a lick of difference whether he knew what the hell he was dreaming or not. Couldn't change prophecy; it took one hell of a guy just to change the details. And last time he'd checked, he was not one hell of a guy. Still, he needed to warn them. Needed to do whatever he could for, y'know, the war effort and all. Maybe he could go door to door, collecting silver and salt like so may children had collected scrap metal back in the forties. Make posters with the Winchesters' faces on them. "We Want You to Stop the Apocalypse!"

"Jesus Christ," he moaned, peeling himself off the couch.

"Watch your tongue, Chuck."

Chuck moaned again, louder this time, and pinched the bridge of his nose. Perfect. Just what he needed. The language police here to stick a bar of holy soap in his mouth on top of everything. They hadn't complained about what he'd put in the books up until now... of course, that hadn't been him cursing. Technically, it had been the Winchesters.

With a sigh, Chuck turned and saw Zachariah standing with three other angels; two male, who looked like they, too, had come right out of a law firm, and one very familiar female face.

His stomach plummeted at the sight of Anna. For a while after Dean and Cas had broken the rules, as it were, his visions had been all over the place. It had been scary enough with his dreams flicking around like a tv that couldn't stop changing channels; scarier still when he started catching glimpses of what the angels were up to. Namely, what they were doing to punish Anna for her disobedience. Once upon a time, he had dreamed of meeting that beautiful, powerful redhead who made writing downright fun sometimes, what with her drama and internal conflict, not to mention that one scene in the Impala that he really wouldn't have written down if he'd known it was real at the time... but now all he could do was suppress a shiver. Sure, her body was as perfect and unscarred as ever, but her soul...

"Hey," he greeted halfheartedly.

Anna's eyes darted to the side, and she wrapped her arms around her torso. Yeah. As much as he didn't like knowing what had happened to her, she probably liked him knowing even less.

"You weren't, by chance, planning on telling the Winchesters anything, were you?"

"Wha-" Chuck sputtered. "Oh, come on! This isn't gonna hurt anybody. They're outnumbered, it could only help!"

Zachariah smiled that smug, "Everything's-under-control" smile, the one his vessel had probably used to seal a million and one business deals.

"Harachel has the situation under control," the angel assured him.

"One angel in a town full of demons? That's, like, asking for the story to go even darker. Why don't you just swoop in stop the demons?"

"Cause we've got more important things to do, other battles to fight."

Chuck's stomach clenched. Zachariah wasn't lying, but...

"Harachel was supposed to be looking for Lucifer," he pointed out. "She's getting sidetracked right now, protecting that kid and holding off the demons. Why don't you go in there and free her up to go do her job?"

"Because we have other people doing that job," Zachariah reminded him, stepping away from the formation of angels. The smug, self-satisfied expression was gone, replaced by another businessman look; the "we're-gonna-do-this-my-way" one. "I understand you've had the opportunity to watch our activities, Chuck. But the most important thing you can remember right now is that watching-" the smile returned. "-is just about all you're supposed to do."

Chuck's stomach turned, the bile burning his throat again. Once upon a time, he might have been able to get away with this, but since sending Dean and Castiel to the convent...

"We just don't want to risk you messing with divine revelation again, that's all. Do you understand, Chuck?"

Chuck licked his lips, his eyes wandering around his broken house, the bottle he'd just about emptied last night, the faces of those two stoic angels and that one very sad one, before returning to Zachariah.

Jerkily, he nodded.

"Yeah," he choked. "I guess."

"Good man." Zachariah smirked and straightened. "Well, better get to work. Wouldn't want to fall behind on your writing, now, would you?"

Right. Cause writing gave him so much pleasure these days. Zachariah turned and walked back to the other angels and, with a flutter of wings, they were gone. All of them.

Well. That pretty much made him officially useless. What use was seeing the future if you couldn't inform the people it directly affected?

Unless...

Chuck dove for the coffee table, fumbling with his cell phone and dialing the number he'd recalled that belonged to Bobby Singer. He couldn't help the Winchesters, but maybe that man could.

"Come on, come on," he muttered, jiggling his leg.

The phone rang once, twice...

"I know you aren't really trying this," Zachariah warned over the phone.

Chuck yelped, flipping the phone off.

Dammit!

o-o-o

Sam jiggled the jug of salt in a familiar routine, spreading it along the windows, the doors, any possible entrance into the room. These days, just to play it safe, they had started rubbing glue around the odd air vent and sticking a little salt on that, if the wallpaper allowed. Luckily, this one had wooden walls, which meant it would be easy to remove whenever they had to leave.

A gentle tapping on the floor by the bed had grown steadily louder until, as Sam finished the last salt line, Castiel was positively pounding his heel against the floor. He fiddled with his hands, twining his fingers together and clenching his fists and tugging at the legs of his borrowed jeans, his eyes fixed on the door. He was probably going to start hyperventilating soon.

"Hey, Cas," Sam hazarded, setting the half-empty jug on one of the side tables by the couch. "Chill, all right? Dean's just outside. We'll know if he's in trouble."

Castiel stilled his tapping, clenching his jaw. He didn't look entirely convinced. Sam shifted awkwardly. He didn't quite know what to do in this situation. Sure, he'd once been 'good cop' brother, comforting victims and tugging at heartstrings. But that felt like a lifetime ago, and he certainly didn't know what to say to a guy he hadn't spoken with since he'd seen his brother in the hospital. And, well... Cas hadn't exactly had a chance to see the good side of him since then.

But he had to try something.

"Um, listen..." Sam sat down on the bed next to the former angel. Castiel stiffened, his eyes flickering to Sam for a moment before he forced himself to relax. "Dean... well, I know what you did. Helping him and all. And I know you guys... well, I still screwed up and it didn't exactly go over like you hoped, but... well I, ah, I think you should know that that was pretty brave. And it's appreciated, really. So... thank you."

Castiel searched Sam's face, his brows furrowed. Sam shifted under the scrutiny. Castiel's focus waned, his eyes glazing over, lips parting.

"Jimmy says... you're far more pleasant when you're remorseful," he mused, brows raising in what might have been Castiel's version of amusement. "I have to say, I agree with him."

"Yeah, well, I can't disagree with him," Sam chuckled grimly. "I know I can get a little obsessed. Hey, uh-" he bit the inside of his lip, not entirely certain about the right way to ask. For all he knew, it could be a very personal subject for an angel. "Can you and Jimmy... I mean, do you talk or anything?"

"We do, now," Castiel mused. "Angels seldom do so while they inhabit a vessel. But I'm no longer an angel in the truest sense, and Jimmy... well, he's pretty vocal."

"Is he?"

Castiel tilted his head to the side.

"He's asked me to tell you some very insulting things, but I suspect you've already heard them in some form or another."

Oh, Sam had no doubts about that. Hell, the things the guy was calling him were probably pretty colorful, considering the fact that Sam had pretty much held him prisoner, bitched him out a few times, killed his friend to drink her blood, and... well, the apocalypse thing. But that was more or less everyone's beef with him.

Castiel's face softened.

"It's... comforting. Speaking with him. I think I would be very lonely otherwise."

"Are you not getting angel radio?" Sam asked, leaning forward.

Castiel shook his head.

"Anna picked up on it because we didn't think it pertinent to shut her out. Once we did, she heard only what we wanted her to hear."

"Guess they want us in the dark," Sam muttered.

"They want us dependent," Castiel said coldly. "Dean is expected to defeat Lucifer. You and I will be kept alive as leverage against him. At this point, it's necessary."

"Makes sense," Jess remarked from the corner, arms crossed and face pinched in irritation. "Question is whether or not the three of you can break free of that without screwing the pooch."

"Sam?" Castiel asked with a frown. "Are you..." His eyes widened and he jumped off the bed, fists clenched white-knuckled.

Sam followed suit, pulling out his gun and unclicking the safety.

The seconds ticked by, but no sound pierced the thin walls of the motel room. Sam's hands began to sweat, loosening his grip on the gun.

"Cas," he whispered. "Hey, man, what's going on?"

But Cas didn't reply; he remained still as a statue, eyes wide enough to bug out of his head, breathing loudly.

The door flew open, slamming into the wall with a loud _bang!_

Sam's grip tightened and he lifted his gun.

Dean backed in first, clutching the demon-killing knife tightly, his eyes burning with anger.

He was followed by a middle-aged, dark haired woman who looked less than impressed by Dean's anger. As she crossed the threshhold, Castiel inhaled sharply. An angel, then. This woman was an angel.

Behind her was a girl. Her sandy, dark blonde hair was pulled away from her face in a messy pony-tail, wide green eyes searching the room nervously, her arms wrapped around her faded gray hoodie as she padded in, close to the angel as possible.

Sam's stomach lurched, his gun lowering before he could spare a thought.

He'd seen this girl before, fleeing a burning house in a vision.

o-o-o


End file.
